


Ghost Studies

by mumblybee



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 13:20:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 54,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblybee/pseuds/mumblybee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Welcome to Freemont Lancel University -- "Freelance" for short. Proud home to wildly ambitious academics, a formidable football team, and a hell of a lot of ghost stories. (Oh, and a guinea pig with a moustache. But don't tell anyone about that.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Moving In

**Author's Note:**

> "Every love story is a ghost story."  
> \- David Foster Wallace

Carolina Church hesitated on the edge of the sidewalk as an endless stream of student-and-parent teams dragged along their motley cargo. They were an army in t-shirts and sweatshirts emblazoned with the name  _Freemont Lancel University_ , all making their way in a determined, belabored march from the parking lot toward the dormitories.

            She edged her toes over into the grass. Cries of, “Mom, over here!” and, “Dad, can you get the door?” soared toward her over the general chatter. Her cell phone sat heavy in her pocket and Carolina wondered briefly about texting her father. The idea seemed plausible for barely three seconds before it disintegrated in her mind. Instead she shifted her pack, straightened as best she could, and walked into the fray.

*

David Washington had studied for practically his whole  _life_  to get here. Freemont Lancel University. Best non-Ivy League science program on the east coast. Boasted such graduates as the famous artificial intelligence researcher, Leonard Church. One of the best universities in the whole country for an aspiring aerospace engineer, according to the Aeronautical Journal. He’d taken all the AP classes in high school, the SAT prep courses, the requisite extracurriculars – he’d barely had time to breathe in between school and Science Club and soccer and community service projects.

And now he was here. He’d made it.

Wash stared at the tall brick walls as his mom drove past the entrance, allowing himself to fall in love with the classic academic architecture all over again. It felt like just days ago that he’d first glimpsed these walls in the university brochure. He barely heard his dad ask him if he’d remembered his student ID, which was also the key to his new room.

“Yeah,” said Wash, feeling the newly-cut plastic rectangle in his pocket. With his picture and his projected graduation year. (He’d made it, he’d made it,  _he was here._ ) “Yeah, Dad, it’s here.”

*

            “Aaaaaaand here we are, kids!” James York shouted above the Rolling Stones currently blasting from the radio of his rusted yellow pick-up truck. He swerved dramatically through the wide-open gates of Freemont Lancel, causing the security guard to glare at him while his passengers – North next to him, his sister South in the back – scrabbled for a safety hold.

            “ _Jesus_ , York!” South shouted. He caught a glimpse of her pink-streaked blond hair in the mirror.

            “Come  _on_ , guys!” York yelled back. “We’re sophomores now! We’re  _officially cool!_ ” He soared over a speed bump while someone on the sidewalk, maybe a public safety officer, waved his arms and shouted something.

            “ _Just fucking park,_ ” South said. North just shook his head, looking slightly ill.

            “Come  _on!_ ” York said again, but he pulled into the next lot and screeched to a halt in what sort of looked like it might be a parking spot, nearly killing a girl and her parents on the way. But only nearly. They were fine, York reasoned.

            North and South hopped out of the truck the minute it stopped, each grumbling (South significantly more so). York followed, all of them heading over to retrieve their various boxes and bags out of the impossible Tower of Stuff that was the bed of York’s truck.

            York took a moment to take in the view of the great and fabled Necessitas. The most coveted dorm building on campus, Necessitas was rife with spacious dorm rooms, cushy-common areas, and, allegedly, various ghosts and secret tunnels. He grinned, crossing his arms and ignoring South’s shout to “Get your ass over here and help us!”

            The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and he was living with his best friend in the best dorm at the best college in the whole world – at least as far as he was concerned.

            It was gonna be a good year.

*

Connie Hartford wasn’t having the best day. It should have been  _literally_  The Best Day, but it wasn’t exactly working out as she’d imagined. First of all, she’d just nearly been killed by some asshole in a pick-up truck. More importantly, she was about to leave her parents behind for a university and a dorm room and a roommate that were suddenly all adding up to one big question mark in her head. It had  _seemed_  like a good idea at the time. Freemont Lancel was a good school with a good IT program and a beautiful, woodsy sort of campus that felt a lot like home.

But it  _wasn’t_  home, and Connie had never been away from her parents for more than two or three days tops, and now here she was clutching her bed comforter to her chest, and it was all just a little bit overwhelming.

“Sweetie, are you ready?” said her mom.

“I’ve got the microwave, kiddo,” added her dad, heading over from the car with bright eyes.

Those were her parents, never failing to break out the pet names in public. Usually she hated that. Today she felt weirdly fond of the idea.

“Okay,” said Connie hugging the comforter tighter. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

*

            Sigmund Maine had brought exactly five boxes with him for his first year of college.

1.      Bedding  
2.      Clothes  
3.      Video games (and console)  
4.      Television  
5.      School supplies.

He was done unpacking his car pretty quick, and unlike just about everybody else in the general vicinity, he didn’t have any parents fussing around. He sort of didn’t know what to do now. Like, what you were supposed to do next. He thought about calling – or, more likely, texting – his mom and dad, but they’d be busy with his older brother’s move-in today. His brother was going back to Harvard for his senior year. It was important. Maine understood.

            So he went outside to get away from all the people swarming around with their boxes and suitcases. He figured maybe he’d take a walk, learn the layout of the place. Maybe just go to the football field. He knew where that was already. He remembered it from orientation.

            And then he saw her, a small girl with bright red hair in a messy ponytail, dragging a backpack and a bunch of duffle bags that kept slipping from her hands. She looked determined. But in a lonely sort of way.

            Maine walked over to her, stepping deliberately into her path. “Do you need help?” he said, looking down at the bags.

*

            Carolina looked up, trying not to breathe too heavily – she didn’t want to seem that pathetic, not on her first day. There was some guy looming over her, and had she been feeling any less exhausted, she probably would’ve already been in ultra-defense mode. Instead she just looked at him, from the wide shoulders stretching out his football jersey to his close-cropped hair and finally to his eyes, which were unexpectedly kind.

            “No,” she said, dragging one of her bags a little farther forward. “No. I’m good.”

            The football player looked back at her, like he was sizing her up, then carefully took one bag from each of her hands before she could protest.

            “I’m Maine,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “I can help.”

            Carolina blinked, anger already starting its slow boil. And then he smiled at her in such a simple, honest way that she almost couldn’t help but feel compelled to return it. (Plus, those bags were  _really_  heavy.)

            “I’m Carolina,” she said. “Thanks.”

            Maine just nodded, and they headed toward the building in relative silence.

*

            When Wash and his parents arrived at his new room, it was entirely bare except for the furniture and five cardboard boxes piled on the bed on the left side of the room.

            “Guess your roommate’s still unpacking his car,” said his mom, setting down one of Wash’s neatly-labeled plastic bins.

            “I guess so,” said Wash. He felt a little nervousness creep up over the edge of his excitement now. It wasn’t that he’d _forgotten_  about the whole roommate thing, it just hadn’t seemed that important up till now. Not nearly as important as packing supplies and reading the introductions of all his textbooks…

            Wash shook his head just a little and focused on the task at hand – turning this room into home. He would start with the books, of course.

*

York and North helped South move into her place first, tossing down what York judged to be  _way_  too many boxes of clothes and saying a brief hello to South’s new roommate. She was some hotshot from Texas with a real mean look in her eyes and a natural talent for making other people feel uncomfortable. York figured she and South would do just fine.

            They were finally out and halfway to their own room on the other side of the building when North stopped dead.

            “What?” said York, swinging back around with a box of vintage records in his arms.

            “We forgot Wyoming,” said North, looking horrorstruck.

            “No we did—” York stopped walking as it dawned on him. “Aw, shit. We did.”

            They stared at each other for a moment, then bolted back toward the parking lot, York’s records jostling dangerously toward the edge of the box.

            When they got to the truck they were greeted by a series of indignant squeals coming from the back seat.

            “He’s pissed. Why’s he always so pissed?” York said, unlocking the door.

            “We  _forgot_  him,” said North, pushing past him to fling the door open. He reached for the sheet-covered cage and lifted it carefully out of the back. The squealing subsided and North lifted the corner of the sheet a little to peer in at the fluffy white guinea pig inside. “Hey, Wyoming,” he said.

            “Sorry, man,” York added.

            The guinea pig glared.

            York shrugged at North, grabbed his records, and they set off again at a far wearier pace.

            “You really gotta trim that thing’s fur or something,” said York as they headed back into the building. “It’s starting to look like he has a moustache.”

            “Oh, shut up.”

*

            Connie swiped her plastic card key through the sensor and stepped into her room, peering cautiously over the boxes in her arms. Her parents were an elevator behind; there hadn’t been enough room in the first one.  For a moment she thought she was alone but as the door swung shut behind her, she caught a glimpse of red in the corner of her eye.

               There was another girl in her room. A wiry girl with pale green eyes and bright red hair that frayed out of its ponytail in a frizzy mess. She was small but stood very straight, shoulders back, gaze level with Connie’s the moment she walked into the room.

 _Your roommate_ , she reminded herself, trying to get used to the idea. It was a perfectly normal thing, having a roommate.

               Except for the giant football player next to said roommate. That was not perfectly normal. That probably wasn’t even _allowed._  What was he even doing here? Was he rooming here too? Was he the girl's brother? Was he her _boyfriend?_ What if he was her boyfriend and he was planning to stay the night, what if they tried to kick Connie out of her own room on her first night, what if –

               Connie stopped that train of thought abruptly, looking at the bags that the football player was setting down gently on the bed at the far side of the room.  _Don’t be stupid,_ she told herself.  _He’s just helping her move._

            “Hi,” said Connie, a little out of breath.

            “Hi,” said the girl. The guy made a rumbling noise that could have passed for a greeting, or maybe just indigestion.

            “I’m Connie.” She set her boxes down on the bed that was closest to her.

            “Carolina,” said the other girl. “This is Maine,” she added, nodding at the tall guy. He nodded at Connie, then rumbled something to Carolina.

               “Okay,” Carolina told him. “Thanks again.” Her voice softened there. Maine just nodded again and headed for the door. Connie was forced to step to the side to let him pass.

               “So,” Connie spoke into the awkward silence that followed. “I guess we’re roommates.”

               “I guess so,” said Carolina. She didn’t sound particularly happy about it. She didn’t sound particularly  _anything_  about it. She opened her mouth to say something else, and that was when Connie’s parents finally barged in with the rest of her stuff.

            “Oh! You must be Connie’s new roommate!” said her mom, beaming over an armful of boxes.

            “Are you from around here?” added her dad, setting the microwave down. “What’s your name? Are you a freshman too?”

            “It’s so nice to meet you!” gushed her mom before Carolina could even begin to respond.

            Connie resisted the urge to facepalm. It was very difficult. Instead she shot Carolina a look that, in a perfect world, would clearly convey her awareness of the incredible hopelessness of her parents.

            Carolina blinked a little but answered the onslaught calmly, wearing a distantly polite smile. “I’m Carolina. I’m a freshman. Not really from around here, a few hours north of here. It’s nice to meet you too.”

            “Mom,” said Connie. “Dad. Please –” But they ignored her, continuing their chatter about how nice it was to be here and what a lovely university and did Carolina like it here and had she been at the tour for admitted students last month and what was she majoring in and, and, and. 

            Connie sighed heavily. Carolina glanced over, her expression unreadable, and Connie offered a weak smile. There was nothing she could do but wait it out and hope her parents weren’t too embarrassing. She sat down on the bed and started to sort out her boxes.

*

            It was late by the time Wash’s new roommate showed up in the doorway. The sun was going down, filling the room with a lazy golden light, and he was just about entirely unpacked. His parents had already left an hour ago, each hugging him tightly enough that he had doubted his ability to continue breathing. They made him promise to call every week and give regular updates via text message – “But not in class, of course,” said his mother sternly. And Wash had promised.

            So now his  _October Sky_  poster hung on the wall above his bed, his books were all shelved alphabetically and by genre, his clothes were neatly folded in his dresser, and his desk was entirely prepared to face a full semester of rigorous academics. The only thing left was to greet his roommate.

Wash stood as said roommate – who, oh god, appeared to be an enormous football player – walked in. “Hey,” he said, as something a bit more intense than the usual new-person-nervousness kicked in. He had not had good luck with enormous football players in high school. “Um…I’m Wash? David Washington? But really I’m Wash.” He suppressed a wince at his own awkwardness.

His roommate did not seem fazed. “I’m Maine,” he said.

            “Nice to meet you?” Wash tried.

            Maine nodded and sat on his bed, looking at the boxes there as though he didn’t particularly approve of their presence. Wash thought about asking if that was all Maine had brought but then he thought maybe that was rude, like what if Maine was against ownership of possessions and asking would be offensive to his beliefs or whatever? He couldn’t take that chance.

            There was a long silence, and then Maine said, “Do you play video games?”

            Wash furrowed his brow. “Yeah, sure.”

            Another pause, shorter this time. Then Maine looked at him, and Wash recognized the nervousness in his face as a reflection of his own. “Do you want to play NASCAR?” Maine asked.

            “Yeah,” said Wash, though he had never played, “that’d be…that’d be cool.”

            “Cool,” agreed Maine, and he began to set up the television.

            Maybe enormous football players weren’t all bad.

*

            “So this is it,” said York, standing over by the window of their new room. You could see a lot from the third floor. They had a particularly good view from the corner of the building here, plenty of stars visible now and the lights of the main building coming in pale through the little patch of woods next to Necessitas.

            “This is it,” North agreed tiredly. He was flat on his back on one of the beds, arms crossed behind his head. His side of the room was almost entirely clean and unpacked. Wyoming’s cage had taken its rightful place next to North’s laptop on the desk, a few books piled on the lid to keep it shut. The guinea pig seemed right at home; he was eating voraciously while glaring at York, which successfully incorporated his two favorite past times.

            York’s stuff was strewn all over the place, but it didn’t bother him. He’d dug out his pajamas and toothbrush and stuff, thrown a pillow and some blankets on the bed, and that was really all he needed right now. Tomorrow there’d be time for unpacking. Tonight he wanted…he wanted to let it all wash over him. A new year, a new semester, a clean academic slate and a brand new dorm. He wanted to remember this. He wanted this to last.

            “You all right?” North said after a while, sitting up to get a better look at York.

            York turned away from the window at last. “Yeah, sure.”

            North frowned. “You’re not talking a whole lot.”

            He shrugged. “Just tired, man. No need to be my mom or anything.”

            North shrugged back. “Just asking.”

            York wandered over to sit cross-legged on his bed, back against the wall, looking at the Avengers posters already adorning North’s side. “It’s gonna be a good year,” he announced.

             “You think so?” said North absently, settling back against his pillow.

            “Sure,” said York. “Sure. It’s gonna be good. I can feel it, man.”

            North smiled. “Right. Why don’t you get some rest?”

            “I  _can_ , though,” said York, tossing a blanket over his knees and letting himself sort of sink down against the mattress. “I really can.”

            “I believe you,” said North simply, and York nodded, yawning and flopping abruptly onto his pillow.

            “M’tired, man,” he mumbled. “Moving sucks.”

            “Goodnight, York,” North replied, glancing over with weary amusement.

            “Night North.” He reached out and swiped at the wall until he hit the lights.

*

Carolina drew her blankets up to her neck and pressed her cheek to the pillow, curled up loosely in her new bed. The mattress was hard, the springs digging a little into her back, but she didn’t really mind it. She’d slept on floors before and this was better.

She glanced over at Connie, who kept shifting around in apparent restlessness. She wondered if they were supposed to be talking, about classes or life or whatever it was that new roommates talked about. They hadn’t said much to each other since Connie’s parents had gone. There were a few questions from Connie, but they were mostly dead-ends. Did your parents come today, what do they do, do you have any siblings. (Answers: No, my dad’s a researcher, and no.)

She listened to her roommate trying to get comfortable in the darkness for another minute or two, then said, “Connie?”

The shifting stopped. “Yeah?” came Connie’s hesitant voice.

“Are you…worried at all about tomorrow?” Carolina said, before she could manage to swallow the words down. It was the sort of thing you could only say in the dark.

There was a pause, and then, “A little,” said Connie, sounding small. “Are you?”

“Yeah,” said Carolina. “A little.”

“Yeah.”

They were quiet for a long while after that, strangely aware of each other’s wakefulness. Then Connie said tentatively, “Goodnight?”

“Goodnight,” Carolina replied, glad for the escape from any possible further conversation. She rolled over to face the wall, eyes still open, and stayed awake for a long time after Connie’s breathing had slowed with sleep.

There were still people in the hallway talking and moving things around; Carolina could hear them clearly through the thin walls. There was a sudden shout, something unintelligible followed by a burst of laughter.

Carolina closed her eyes to the darkness, dragged the blankets up over her ears, and tried not to think of anything at all.


	2. Physics and French Toast

 Carolina woke to a light that was still new and pale, barely grazing the edges of the half-shut blinds. The large alarm clock that Connie had placed on the window ledge between their beds blinked _5:17 AM_ in bright green.

She blinked back at it. Logically she should have been tired, but it was as though every nerve in her body was on high alert. Her eyes felt strangely wide and clear. Carolina glanced over at Connie, still curled tight in sleep, then slid her legs over the edge of the mattress.

Her feet hit the floor cold, and she headed for her dresser to grab a pair of socks. There was nowhere to be, this early in the morning – the cafeteria was still closed and her classes didn’t start for another five hours – but she could go running. You didn’t need a destination for that.  
Carolina slid the dresser drawer open as quietly as she could, searching for her jogging clothes. She changed quickly in the bathroom, tucked her key-card into the pocket of her running shorts, and slipped out the door. It took no time at all to sprint down the stairwell and out the back entrance of Necessitas.

The campus felt so different in the morning quiet and the patches of woods looked so thick and green that it was as though she was someplace else, someplace undiscovered. There was no aimless chattering, no laughing, no noises except for the birds and the breeze ruffling through the trees.

Her sneakers lifted easily from the sidewalk, and as her breathing quickened she felt lighter and lighter, running through a world that had not yet woken.

* 

When she got back Connie was just sitting up in bed, her short hair a tousled mess.

“Morning,” said Carolina, still floating on the rush of a good run.

“Mmnn,” Connie responded, yawning hugely. “It’s _early_.”

Carolina glanced at the clock. _6:51_. “Yeah,” she said. “You don’t get up early?”

Connie blinked at her with bleary eyes. “Well, no,” she said. “Generally I don’t get up until I actually _have_ to get up. Like. For class. Or an air raid. Whatever.” Her voice was still croaky from sleep, but it managed to get the sarcasm across nonetheless.

“I see.” Carolina paused for a moment, trying to think of something civil to say. “Okay. I’m going to use the shower.”

“Mmkay,” Connie mumbled, dragging the blankets back over her head. “Have fun with that.”

Carolina didn’t respond, just grabbed some clothes and a towel and shut the bathroom door behind her. The shower steam filled her lungs in a calming sort of way, and she spent a long time standing under the hot water, letting it burn against her skin.

 

*

 

Wash rolled out of bed at precisely 7:30am, which would have been fine except for the fact that he literally _rolled out of the bed_ and onto the hard floor, waking with a yelp of pain. For a split-second he flailed on his back like a deranged turtle, and then the light came in through the blinds and he blinked, remembering where he was.

“Umm,” he said to the room at large, and was answered by a loud snore. Wash scrambled to his feet, rubbing at his elbow where he’d landed, and looked over at Maine’s bed. The guy was contentedly unconscious with his limbs all spread out, taking up every square inch of the bed. One of his Xbox controllers lay beside his head on the pillow.  

“College,” Wash mumbled quietly to himself. “Yeah. College. Okay.” It was sometimes necessary to repeat the name of a thing to make it real.

He picked up the schedule he’d written for himself on an index card, staring at it for a long moment without taking in any of the neatly penciled class times or room numbers. Then he placed it carefully back onto his desk and wandered to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Dental hygiene was important. And much less complicated than college schedules.

Wash stared hard at his reflection in the mirror as he carefully brushed each tooth one by one. You are a college student, he told himself, gripping his toothbrush firmly.

Mirror-Wash looked doubtful.

He kept brushing.

 

*

 

By the time she was done with her shower, Carolina figured the cafeteria had to be open. So she pulled on a blue t-shirt and her dark skinny jeans, and headed out for her second mission of the day.

The campus was still quiet; there evidently weren’t that many early-risers at Freemont Lancel. By the time she made it to the large brick building that housed the cafeteria, Carolina was no longer charmed by this. In fact she was vaguely irritated with the campus at large for not adhering to an earlier sleep schedule. It was all right to have quiet sometimes, but you didn’t want to feel like you were the only remaining survivor of a destroyed civilization.

She was the only one on the steps up to the cafeteria. She was the only one swiping her meal card at the entrance. She was the only – no, wait, there were a couple of guys by the coffee bar. A couple of _very loud_ guys. Carolina hesitated, walking a bit slower in order to size them up. The taller one was blond and worried-looking in his Captain America t-shirt. The other had sort of chestnut brown hair that stuck up in the front, bright eyes, and gestured wildly as he spoke. He was both undeniably good looking and undeniably crazy looking.

“What I’m saying,” said the Captain America guy as Carolina got closer, “is that you should _probably consider_ not drinking so much coffee that your heartbeat is forever on the verge of stopping. It’s just an idea.”

“Aw, come on, North,” said the crazy one. “You’re just jealous.”

“What exactly am I _jealous_ of?” asked North with deep weariness.

“The fact that I have superior coffee making skills.”

North brought his hand to his forehead and sighed deeply. “No. York. That is not what this is about.”

“Yeah it is. But that’s okay, because I’m –”

York stopped talking the moment he saw Carolina, who had been standing there waiting with her arms folded for a good thirty seconds. She raised her eyebrows.

He blinked at her in surprise. She took the opportunity to notice that his eyes were an interesting shade of grayish blue. Then he smiled at her in a way which he clearly felt was irresistibly charming. “Hi. I’m York.” His voice was suddenly a whole lot smoother than it had been a couple of seconds ago.

“Hi, York,” she answered flatly. “You’re blocking the coffee.”

“Wha – oh,” said York, jumping to the side. “Sorry, man. I mean – I mean – what’s your name?”

She grabbed a paper cup, filled it halfway from the coffee dispenser, and gave him a withering look. “It’s Carolina,” she said. “And now you’re blocking the cream.”

He stepped smoothly to the other side of the coffee bar again in one exaggerated stride. “Carolina, huh? I don’t think I’ve seen you around…” Typical line. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

“That would be because I’m new,” she replied, measuring out her cream carefully, then adding exactly a packet and a half of sugar. When she turned back toward him to get a lid, he was leaning casually against the bar with one hand in his pocket and the other fiddling with a plastic coffee stirrer. She glanced at it to confirm – yes, he was actually twirling the thing between his fingers. She’d seen better flirting attempts in a middle school cafeteria.

“Well, if you need somebody to show you around, I’d be hap–”

Carolina snatched the stirrer from his hand and he stopped, his grin faltering. “This doesn’t make you look cool,” she informed him. “It makes you annoying.”

York opened his mouth, then closed it again. She wondered if she had broken him.

She dunked the stirrer deliberately into her own cup, swirled it around a few times until her coffee had reached the correct coloring, then tossed it. As she headed for the breakfast selection she could hear York’s friend laughing openly, presumably at York. She paused a few steps away, then called back, “Oh, and thanks for the offer. But I can find my way around just fine.”

His stunned expression lingered in her mind as she walked away. She picked up her pace, hair swinging behind her.

 

 

*

 

Wash’s first class – Intro to Physics – was at nine-thirty, so naturally he was out the door and heading for the science building by eight. You could never be too early to something. But you could absolutely be too late. And if you were late everyone would _look_ at you and you would _never_ live it down and you would _die_ a little bit inside every single time you went into that class and –

He took a deep breath. Unhelpful thoughts. These were exceedingly unhelpful thoughts. Nope. No help here. Best to dismiss them – or better yet, to try and replace them with positive thinking. Wash had read a few books on positive thinking.

Okay, so Physics. Intro to Physics. This was gonna be a total breeze. He had taken the honors level physics course in high school and, well, he sat around reading stuff like the _Aeronautical Journal_ in his spare time which did not really win him any friends but – positive thoughts! – but was totally going to win him awesome grades. Yeah. And then he was gonna build rockets and it was gonna be just like _October Sky_ and – and holy shit Jake Gyllenhaal was _so cool_ , how come he couldn’t _be_ Jake Gyllenhaal, because Jake Gyllenhaal was so _good looking_ and _talented_ and built _rockets_ and survived intense natural disasters and god he was never going to be as cool as Jake Gyllenhaa—aaahhh damn it, positive thoughts!

“Positive thoughts positive thoughts,” Wash muttered to himself as he hiked up one of the campus’s many hills. A random fellow pedestrian glanced at him strangely. He ignored her, focusing instead on the hill, which was proving to be impressively steep. His backpack was feeling a little too heavy just now. Maybe he shouldn’t have brought his other textbooks. He didn’t even have any other classes today. Man, he was stup – no, no, he was just _prepared_. He was prepared and he was gonna be cool and have good grades and maybe later he could figure out how to style his hair like Jake Gyllenhaal.

Yeah.

 

*

 

Breakfast was a soggy affair, comprised mostly of overdone French toast. Carolina had not been aware that one could overdo French toast, but here was the evidence speared on her fork. She eyed it warily. Hopefully the food wasn’t this bad all the time.

“Pretty bad, huh? You’ll get used to it.”

Carolina looked up to see – oh, great. York. He was smiling again, but to his credit it looked a lot more real (and a lot less let’s-try-and-impress-the-girl) this time. “I think we’ve established that we’re done talking,” she told him.

York tilted his head a little and spoke earnestly. “Look, man, I just wanted to say sorry for before. If I was bothering you. I don’t wanna bother anybody. I’m totally anti-bothering people, it’s just not my thing. Like I would not even place last in a bothering people contest. I would place nonexistent. Because I wouldn’t even participate.” He looked at her very significantly.

Carolina set her fork down. “What is wrong with you.”

York shrugged. “Not much, I mean I’ve got two eyes and a nose and all that so I figure I’m fine. So are you a freshman?”

“Are you stupid?” she replied.

“No, just persistent,” said York cheerfully. He started to say something else, but then his friend – North – arrived and elbowed him in the side.

“We have class, York,” he sighed, then looked at Carolina. “Sorry. He’s not always like this.”

“Yes I am,” said York, entirely unapologetic. “It’s part of my charm.”

“Okay, yes he is. But…yeah, just, sorry,” North said, taking York by the arm and steering him forcibly away.

“I was just being friendly,” she heard York protest as they walked away.

“You were being weird.”

“You would know.”

“Shut up.”

Carolina waited until they’d disappeared out the cafeteria doors, their arguing fading into the distance, and then went back to the laborious task of finishing her lackluster French toast. Why did everybody make such a big deal about college guys? College guys were weird.

 

*

 

Wash had been sitting on the floor outside his Physics classroom for approximately an hour, quietly reading his textbook, when somebody’s sneakered feet appeared in his field of vision.

“Is this Physics?”

He looked slowly up from the sneakers to the face of their owner, a girl with sideswept brown hair and serious eyes. She was studying him unashamedly and he felt suddenly uncomfortable, like he ought to have worn a nicer t-shirt. (He was wearing his tiger t-shirt. From the Bronx Zoo.)

“Oh, um, yeah,” said Wash. “Yeah, it is.”

She nodded and sat down across from him. “You’re pretty early,” she said.

“You are too,” he pointed out.

She shrugged. She was wearing a brown blouse with some sort of lighter colored pattern that put him in mind of far away places. “I didn’t want to get lost.”

“Me too. I mean me either.” Wash frowned. “I’m Wash,” he told her.

“Wash? As in ‘I’m going to wash my car now’?” she asked, smiling a little.

“No, as in ‘I’m actually David Washington but there were too many Davids in my second grade class so everybody started calling me Wash and it stuck,’” he replied.

“Ah. I’m Connie.”

“As in conartist?” Wash asked, raising his eyebrows.

“As in Constance,” she replied with a quirk of her lips.  “Unless my parents aren’t telling me something.”

“That’s a cool name,” Wash said, hoping he didn’t sound too earnest.

She smiled at him. “That’s a cool shirt.”

“Thanks,” said Wash, suddenly proud of his clothing choices. Maybe he didn’t have to learn to style his hair like Jake Gyllenhaal after all.

They chatted for a while about the class – what the professor would be like, whether it would be difficult, et cetera – until the other students arrived and it was time to go in.

Connie chose the desk directly behind him.

 

*

 

Her first class, American Literature, was in the oldest building on campus – the big brick estate that they put on all of the college brochures and advertisements. Doric columns and marble steps gave it a classic feel, a very _college_ feel, and Carolina could not help but be a little intimidated. She didn’t show it, of course. You couldn’t show things like that. She wore her shoulders back and her head high.

Well, right up until she climbed the soft-carpeted stairs to her classroom and found York lounging across two desks. One appeared to be reserved for his feet.

He broke out in a grin when he saw her. “Carolina, right?” he said, as though they hadn’t just met like an hour ago. A couple of other students looked up with vague interest.

“York,” she said coolly, and went straight to the desk at the opposite corner, in the front row.

“So earlier I didn’t get a chance to tell you,” said York, choosing to ignore the fact that she had just deliberately placed distance between them. “I—”

And then he shut up, because that was when the professor walked in. At least Carolina assumed he was their professor; he looked a little young. He had square-rimmed glasses and an oddly out of place lime green tie. “Good morning,” he said. “And welcome to American Literature. I am Professor Delta. I will be passing out copies of the syllabus and we will discuss our upcoming semester shortly.”

He spoke a little like a robot, but there was a reassuring calmness in his words, and he looked them over almost kindly as he handed out the packets of syllabi. Still, Carolina decided to reserve judgment till at least the third class. It took a while to know if someone could really be trusted.

“Please remove your feet from the adjacent desk, Mister…” Delta said, eyeing York.

“York, sir,” said York brightly as he swung his feet down. “James York.”

“James York. I’ll remember that,” said Delta. It sounded slightly threatening.

York did not seem alarmed. In fact he just smiled benignly at the professor until he moved on, then proceeded to return his feet to the desk.

Carolina decided it would not be prudent to laugh. She stared hard at the first page of her syllabus instead as Professor Delta began speaking.

“As the course title suggests, we will be studying various forms of American Literature throughout this semester. If you will please look at page one of your syllabus, the course materials are listed there in the order in which you will need them. Today we are going to speak briefly about what literature is, why it is important, and to what extent it influences the physical world.” Delta paused, casting his solemn gaze over the room. “We will also, once again, refrain from resting our feet on the furniture.”

There were a few giggles from the class as York said, “Sorry, sir,” and swung his feet back down again. Carolina rolled her eyes.  
Professor Delta smiled slightly and adjusted his glasses. “I doubt the sincerity of that apology, York, but alas we do not have time to linger on these matters. Instead you are to read an extra chapter of your textbook for next class. I will expect you to have prepared thorough and thought-provoking commentary to share with your peers.”

“On it, sir,” York replied with a grin.

“Good. Now, who can tell me what literature is?”

Carolina’s hand shot up in the air.

“Yes, Miss...”

“Carolina Church,” she said, ignoring the scattered whispers that this declaration produced. “Usually when we say ‘literature’ we mean fiction. Mostly the classic novels, but it doesn’t have to be that. Technically any written material is literature.”

“Yes,” said Delta, looking pleased. “The word ‘literature’ is very broad, but in this class we are using it to describe fictional works from a particular culture and time period. For example...”

Carolina reached for a pen as Delta went on with his lecture, and began to scribble careful notes in her already-prepared notebook. She felt someone looking at her and glanced up to meet York’s eyes, just for a second. The tip of her pen paused mid-word. He looked...impressed. She wasn’t sure why that felt so good.

...Whatever. Not important now. She ducked her head and kept writing.

  


*

 

Their physics professor arrived ten minutes late, which Wash took a bit hard (he briefly considered changing his major and was enveloped in temporary existential angst at the very idea). The professor, however, did not even seem to notice.

“Well hello there, everyone,” he said as he entered the room. “Welcome to physics! I’m sure you’re _just_ as excited as I am to learn _all about_ the _wonders_ of our universe.” He was a broad-shouldered, beaming man dressed in a blue t-shirt and jeans. Wash felt this was rather inappropriate for a college professor. But then again, he had never met a college professor.

“But where are my manners. My name is Professor Butch Flowers! It’s _so good_ to see all of you. How are you doing today?” he said in an entirely too caring tone of voice.

The class stared back in silence.

“All right!” said Professor Flowers. “Let’s go around the room and introduce ourselves. And of course, our hopes and dreams!” He chuckled warmly.

The class continued staring.

“We’ll start with you,” Professor Flowers said helpfully, pointing at Wash.

“Me?” said Wash. He was fairly certain that what he was feeling right now was pure, undiluted terror.

“You,” Professor Flowers confirmed, still smiling. He had not stopped smiling. Possibly he would never stop smiling.

“Um, I’m Wash – David Washington – and I – you want me to tell you my hopes and dreams?” he said, just to be sure.

“Why I _sure_ do,” said Flowers.

Goddamnit. “I want to build rockets,” Wash said very quickly. He heard Connie shift in the seat behind him. She was laughing at him probably. They usually did.

“Great to meet you, David!” said Flowers. “Next!”

Next was, of course, Connie. “I’m Connie,” she said, “and I hope and dream to pass this class so that I don’t ever have to take it again.”

“Isn’t that just _de_ lightful,” Flowers said, and he moved onto the next student. Wash listened as his peers struggled to come up with acceptable answers to what was probably the worst question ever, of all time.

The last student was a dark-haired girl lounging in the back corner of the room, wearing all black and a deep scowl. “Call me Tex,” she said. “And I don’t have hopes and dreams. Unlike _some_ people, I actually take what I want.”

A short pause followed this. Then Flowers said, “Well isn’t that just _wonderful_ , class!” and mercifully began to speak about actual physics.

 

*

 

Carolina continued her dutiful note-taking throughout the rest of the class, sparing no more glances for anyone. When Professor Delta dismissed them she packed up her bag neatly and made her way out of the building, dodging around other students and slipping out the back door. She didn’t have another class for a while yet and it was beginning to drizzle, so she directed her course toward the dorms. Not that there was anything to do there, really, but at least it was somewhere to be. Somewhere that was at least a little bit her own.

“Hey, Carolina! Wait up!” York jogged up to meet her before she’d gotten too far, and she almost wasn’t surprised at his appearance. He ran a hand through his hair, sounding a little breathless as he began, “Hey, so I was just wondering if you –”

And then her cell phone went off, the standard ring shrilly interrupting him. “Hold on,” Carolina said, turning away and fumbling to retrieve the phone from her jeans pocket. She glanced at the caller ID and paused for half a second before hitting answer.

“Hello?” she said, walking a few feet away from York.

“Carolina,” said her father. He sounded tired. This was not unusual.

“Hi, Dad,” she said, working hard to keep from sounding robotic.

“You’re at school?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I see. And…where is it?”

Carolina grit her teeth. He forgot things. The scattered landscape of his mind did not allow him to remember anything of use. It was not his fault. “It’s your school, Dad. Your old school. Freemont Lancel,” she said with forced calm. “Two and a half hours north of us.” 

“Right,” he said. “Yes. Right…”

“Did you…” She hesitated. This was never a good subject, even when he was in one of his more lucid moods. Glancing at York, she took a few more steps away. “Did you pick up the medicine?”

“I can be trusted to monitor my own health, Carolina,” he replied in his slow drawl. He spoke this way primarily when he was becoming irritated with her; he became slower, calmer before resorting to actually showing his anger.

“Yes. Okay. Sorry.” She would allow him this small authority.

Silence. Then, “Do you have enough money?”

“Yes.” There was always enough money. That, at least, was stable.

“All right.” He paused again. She could picture him in the living room surrounded by his books, his madly-scribbled notes, the senseless calculations that he still referred to as his _research_. (And her mother would be watching from the wall just beside the clock, her rare smile frozen in a picture frame…)

“Goodbye, Carolina,” said her father, already sounding distracted by something else.

“You’ll call next week?” The words tumbled out before she could stop them, and god she hated how pathetic that made her sound. Like she actually wanted him to call, like this was something she needed.

“Yes,” her father replied distantly. “Yes. Next week.”

“Goodbye,” said Carolina, because there was nothing else left. The line went dead. She looked up at the darkening sky for a moment, the way she imagined someone would look up in prayer. Just for a moment. Not long enough to make her seem odd. The drizzle was increasing now to a light, warm rain and she blinked as a few drops splashed onto her face. Then she shifted her gaze back to York.

“What were you saying?” she asked, voice coming hollow from her throat.

York frowned. “Is everything okay?”

“That’s not what you were saying.”

He studied her and she stared back, face kept tense to hide any hint of emotion. A sort of understanding flickered in York’s eyes. “Right,” he said, his voice almost imperceptibly softened. “I was just gonna say that...me and North are gonna get lunch at the caf in like ten minutes if you wanna come.”

She was tempted to tell him she had class, or homework, or something, but her stomach was near-growling and it was raining and -- and the phone call had left her rattled. It always did.

“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah. Fine.”

York’s face lit up. “Cool,” he said. “We could just walk over now, if you…”

“Sure. Whatever,” Carolina said quickly, and he nodded at her and started walking along in this cheerful ambling gait that put her in mind of a Labrador retriever. It was sort of calming, walking alongside him to one of the few locations she already knew. Especially because he talked in such a ceaseless rambling rhythm -- about Delta, about classes in general, about the campus grounds (“Did you know they were designed by this really famous landscape designer from like France or whatever?”) -- that she hardly had to say a word.

She was feeling all out of words at the moment.

 

*

 

“Well,” Connie muttered to Wash as they made their way from the classroom. “That was...interesting.”

‘Interesting’ was not quite the word for it. ‘Horrifying’ might have worked, or, if you were feeling slightly less melodramatic, ‘nearly disastrous’ was a pretty good phrase. The class had gone on almost normally until Professor Flowers suddenly decided that he wanted them to get up and stand in a circle and play some “ice breaker” games. When it was Tex’s turn to give her name and a memorable adjective, she chose “leave me the fuck alone” and it all went downhill from there. Flowers did not, however, appear to mind. In fact he said he was glad they were “expressing” themselves and when Tex said “fuck this, I’m out,” he just chuckled benevolently and told them class was dismissed.

Wash sighed. “That was the worst class,” he said.

“Yeah, it --”

“Ever.”

“I--”

“Of all time.”

Connie eyed him with mild amusement. “Maybe not _that_ bad. But yeah. It was pretty terrible.” They reached the doors and paused, staring out at the increasingly heavy rain.

“I think there’s a study lounge upstairs,” Wash said after a moment. (In fact he _knew_ there was a study lounge upstairs, because he had taken care to learn the locations of every study lounge on campus. But she didn’t need to know that.)

“Okay,” said Connie, following him as he led the way toward the staircase. “It’s a bit rainier here than home,” she added absently, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.  

“Is that bad?” Wash asked. What if she hated the weather here and she moved back home to wherever she lived, probably the desert where it never rained and probably she would hate it here and he was totally wasting both their time by trying to be her friend and god he should just give up now because --

“No,” Connie interrupted his inner maelstrom as they reached the study lounge door. “No, I like it.”

She smiled at him then and he returned it almost without worrying.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, me too.”

The lounge was empty, and they each took an armchair. Connie withdrew a laptop from her bag and Wash took out one of his textbooks. They went about their separate pursuits in comfortable silence, interrupted only by sound of the rain on the window.

College, thought Wash again. I’m at college.

For some reason it felt a whole lot less scary now.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again thank you to my friends for reading this and offering suggestions and just being wonderfully helpful, brilliant, encouraging human beings.
> 
> Also! Feedback is totally encouraged and much-appreciated.


	3. Pudding Adventure

“We’re out of pudding,” said York, turning grimly from the mini-fridge to face North.

“What?” mumbled North, buried under the blankets on his bed. In fact he basically had become the blankets on his bed. Maybe he would soon no longer be North at all. Maybe he would slowly lose his humanity and become blankets forever.

York had recently ingested a lot of coffee. It was entirely possible that York had ingested a near-toxic, hallucination-inducing amount of coffee, but that wasn’t important right now.

“We’re _out_. Of _pudding,_ ” York repeated. “It’s been two weeks, man! Two weeks and we’re already out of pudding.”

North let out a sort of long-suffering groan. “I don’t think we ever had pudding.”

“We _totally_ had pudding, man. We had a lot of it. Chocolate pudding. Only chocolate because that’s the only kind of pudding that makes sense, you know? It’s the only kind that you ever need, like, the only kind that matters, okay? You know?”

“York, it’s like eleven o’clock.”

“Yeah. It’s eleven o’clock and we’re out of pudding.” York could feel his eyes widening in a slightly psychotic fashion but was powerless to stop it due to coffee. “Do you know what this means?”

“Eat something else? Go to bed?” North said hopefully, finally poking his head up out from under the covers.

“ _Pudding Adventure,_ ” York said in a deeply significant tone of voice, like how someone might announce a movie title.

“...What?”

York dragged the blankets off North’s bed. “Get up, North. It’s a Pudding Adventure.”

North’s face dropped down onto the pillow. “Uuugghh.”

“C’mon, man, get up,” said York.

“No,” came the muffled reply.

“Get up."

“No.”

“Get uuupppppp,” York insisted, prodding him in the arm, until finally North sat up and swung his legs over the mattress. He stared at York with bleary eyes.

“Why is this happening.”

“That’s the spirit,” York replied brightly, and he began to drag North toward the door.

 

 

*

 

Connie glanced up from her book as the door opened and Carolina walked into their room with a purpose. She did everything with a purpose. At the moment she appeared to be dripping rainwater from her hair to the floor with great purpose. She was dressed in jogging clothes and drenched to the bone, which made her look smaller than she already was.

“Hi,” said Connie, and Carolina blinked a few water droplets from her eyelashes.

“Hey.”

Then she went into the bathroom. The door clicked shut and the shower began to run, and Connie sighed.

It wasn’t that Connie disliked her roommate. She just didn’t have any reason to like her yet. They had coexisted peacefully enough over the past two weeks, but Carolina was never _there_ , was always out at class or jogging late nights and early mornings, rain or shine. Connie was not sure when she actually slept. Maybe she never slept. Maybe she was actually a robot. It could happen. Carolina’s attention to detail was probably inhuman -- every inch of her room was meticulously organized, and every morning she made her bed with military precision, somehow managing to arrange blankets and pillows in crisp, straight lines. Connie wasn’t exactly messy, but anybody would look like a slob next to Carolina. There was practically a visible line drawn down the middle of their room, separating Connie’s comfortable decor from Carolina’s sparse decorations and perfect organization.

Connie sighed and curled back up on her own bed, eyes returning to her book. She should’ve been studying physics, probably, but this was the latest _Alien Punchers_ novel and Connie had a severe and debilitating addiction to the deliciously trashy, action-adventure crack that was the _Alien Punchers_ series. _When the aliens arrived,_ began the prologue that she had read seventeen thousand times, _we punched them._

Oh, to be an Alien Puncher.

 

 

*

 

Maine woke to the thunder of footsteps galloping down the hallway, followed by what sounded like someone shouting something about a fork. Or maybe pork. Stork? New York? Something -ork.

He rolled over onto his side, grappling for his cell phone on the adjacent table. The numbers read 11:27pm. Wash was still sleeping -- he went to bed exactly at 10:30pm every night and was hardly ever disturbed by any amount of noise. Maine appreciated this. It meant he could stay up late and play video games.

The footsteps halted someplace nearby and the shouting lowered to a regular volume but repeated the thing about -- Maine listened carefully -- York. It was definitely York.

Maine climbed reluctantly out of bed and ambled over to look out the eyehole in the door. It was blurry, so not all that useful. He could just barely make out the shapes of two guys, one of which was sitting on the floor holding his head. Maine opened the door.

“You okay?” he said.

The guy on the floor lifted his head gingerly. “Oh. Hey man, I just...”

“Ran into a wall,” finished the guy standing next to him. He was tall, blond, and maybe from history class. Maine couldn’t remember, but he looked familiar.

“I didn’t run into a wall,” said the guy who’d run into the wall. “I just -- hit it. When I was running.”

“Same thing.”

“No, man, it’s totally different. See...”

Maine stood there and endured their bickering for a little while before interrupting. “My roommate is sleeping.” Not that Wash would wake up, probably. But still. There was football practice tomorrow morning.

The two of them stopped abruptly. The one who was maybe from history class said sheepishly, “Sorry...you’re Maine, right? From history class?”

Maine nodded.

“I’m North. And this is York.”

“Hey.” York raised a hand in greeting and then returned it to his head, flattening brown hair beneath his palm and wincing at the pressure.

“And we’re sorry,” North added. “Right, York?”

“We’re incredibly, excessively sorry,” York confirmed. Then he glanced at North. “But we’re still out of pudding.”

“York...”

“It’s true, man! We set out on a pudding adventure and you can’t just stop a pudding adventure right in the middle before you even find any pudding, I mean come on--”

“York--”

“I mean I know you’re Mr. Responsible and all but you gotta have adventures sometime, man, otherwise you’re just--”

“ _York,_ ” North said again. “Your head is bleeding.”

York blinked. He brought his hand down and Maine could see the blood dripping over his fingers clearly from the doorway. “Only a little,” York said. “It’s fine.”

“It’s a head injury. You don’t mess around with head injuries,” North said firmly. “Trust me. I’m South’s brother, remember? We’re going to the health cent--”

He’d barely gotten the word out when York groaned and interrupted, “Aw, no, man, I hate that place! They’re probably not even open.”

“I have a first-aid kit,” Maine said, before North could get out whatever it was he was going to say. He nodded toward the room. “You can come in.”

There was a quick pause during which North and York exchanged glances. North looked uncertain, but York’s relief was obvious.

“Thanks,” he said, grinning easily even as he tried to wipe some of the blood onto his jeans.

“Aren’t we gonna wake your roommate up?” North said as they followed Maine into the room.

“His head is bleeding,” Maine replied simply, gesturing at York, and North sighed.

“Thanks for helping,” he said, resigned.

Maine just waved them in, closing the door as quietly as possible behind them.

 

 

*

South woke to the sound of something really, really heavy colliding with something really, really solid. She grumbled a few choice curses and pulled her pillow over her head, trying to drown out the subsequent noise of voices from the hallway. Some idiot had probably run into a wall or something. Whatever.

After a while she sat up and ran her hands through her hair in frustration. Great. Now she couldn’t sleep. Maybe she’d go for a walk or see if she could steal something out of the vending machines downstairs. She had class early next morning but it was Algebra and the professor didn’t give a shit if you were absent so she wasn’t even gonna go probably. So whatever.

Tex didn’t appear to have been bothered by the noise. She was still sitting at her desk, glowering at a physics textbook in the dim light of her desk lamp.

They hadn’t talked much in the past two weeks but it hadn’t been an entirely uncomfortable silence. Tex didn’t give a shit and neither did South and so when they were together the room was overrun by a thick sense of mingled apathy and rebellion. South had decorated her walls with punk rock band posters. Tex had mostly motorcycle posters. The aesthetic sort of matched. Enough that South didn’t feel like fighting about it, and there wasn’t a whole lot that South didn’t feel like fighting about.

For example, it was irritating her that Tex had not reacted to the noise. “Did you hear that?” South said pointedly.

“Yeah. Some dumbass probably met a wall or something,” Tex replied.

South worked to keep her scowl. “Probably.”

“You gonna be up a while?” Tex asked, glancing over.

“Probably,” South repeated.

“Then I’m turnin’ the light back on,” Tex said, getting up to find the light switch.

South shrugged and rummaged for her iPod -- she kept it behind her pillow -- then stuck in the earbuds and went wandering through her playlists till she found the Angry Metal Penguins, which was basically the best band ever in the universe. She swung her legs over the edge of the mattress, shoved her combat boots on, and let the door slam on her way out.

 

 

*

 

Carolina was restless. She was almost always restless but tonight was worse than usual. She’d called her dad that morning; he’d missed their weekly check in. She’d asked in stilted tones how he was doing. He’d told her he was busy, very busy, and had hung up before she could respond.

It wasn’t until afterward that she’d realized the date.

September sixteenth was only a number, an arbitrarily categorized point in time, and it did not mean anything. Carolina rehearsed this line often enough, though it didn’t seem to do much good for her rattling nerves. She’d attempted to ignore the whole thing all day until she’d felt like her chest was bursting and this was why she had gone out for a run at ten o’clock at night in the pouring rain. Not her best plan, and she felt kind of shivery and weird even after a hot shower, but at least there’d been nobody else around.

And still the number echoed around inside of her until she felt sick with the repetition. September sixteenth, thirteen years ago -- the last time she’d heard her mother’s voice. It was a veritable sob story.

Carolina ran her hands through her shower-damp hair, sitting at her desk with a book in front of her that she didn’t particularly feel like reading. It was opened to a short story assigned by Professor Delta -- “A Clean Well Lighted Place.” It was mostly dialogue and she couldn’t seem to concentrate on it no matter how hard she stared at the words. She couldn’t will them into her brain. Something about an alcoholic and an argument and youth and old age... She grit her teeth and forced her eyes to the page again.

_“He was in despair."_

_“What about?"_

_“Nothing."_

_“How do you know it was nothing?"_

_“He has plenty of money.”_

After a while she sighed and closed the book, resting her head on the desk for a moment. Connie was already asleep, had drifted off with some novel about aliens still clutched in one hand. It was hanging loose from her fingers at last glance, dangerously close to the edge of the mattress.

A soft thump made Carolina raise her head -- sure enough, the alien book had made its inevitable progression to the floor. She went over to pick it up absently, setting it on the windowsill by Connie’s bed.

And that was when the yelling started.

 

 

*

 

“OW OW JESUS CHRIST OW,” York yelped over the sound of North telling him to _calm down_   and _sit still for fuck’s sake_. Through the burning in his forehead he was dimly aware of Maine fumbling around with the first aid kit, grabbing a roll of gauze and trying to press it to York’s skull. York responded to this by beginning a frantic running loop around the room. Unfortunately he couldn’t move very far because of the size of the room, but it was the thought that counted, right? Blood was trickling down the left side of his face but whatever it was fine it was fine oh god it was --

“Stay still,” Maine said with remarkable calm considering the fact that he had pretty much just lit York’s head on fire. He took a few slow steps forward and somehow managed to back York easily into a corner.

“Sorry man, but you just lit my head on fire,” York said, affably enough.

“Nobody lit your head on fire,” North said firmly. “It’s rubbing alcohol. It stings.”

“Whoa. _Stings?_ ” York repeated indignantly, turning to stare at North.

There was a vague mumbling coming from the corner, and all three of them turned around to stare at Maine’s roommate, who appeared to be surfacing into consciousness. He blinked back at them for a heavy pause.

“Um,” said the perplexed-looking roommate, “who are you?”

“HeymanI’mYork,” said York promptly, out of habit.

“Uhh,” said North.

“What’s happening,” said the roommate sadly.

Maine didn’t have a chance to attempt any explanations before the knocking came. They all glanced at each other with a kind of frantic confusion, and then Maine lumbered over to wrench the door open.

York’s heart did a funny little kick in his chest. Carolina was standing there in blue star-patterned pajamas, her arms folded, bright hair down around her shoulders. She looked equal parts curious and angry.

“Hey Carolina,” said York, before he could help himself. She looked him slowly up and down, then turned toward Maine.

“What’s going on in here?” she said brusquely. “There are people on this floor who enjoy sleeping, believe it or not.”

“Sorry,” said Maine. “He--”

“I hit my head,” York interrupted, mostly so her eyes would turn back toward him.

She raised a brow. “I can see that.”

“He ran into a wall,” North clarified.

“No, see, I was running and I --”

“Seriously, what’s happening?” the roommate interrupted, and Maine rumbled, “Sorry, Wash.”

Right. Wash. David Washington. York recognized him from Algebra, now that the kid’s eyes weren’t so bleary.

“D’you have Professor Grif?” York asked conversationally.

Wash frowned. “Yeah, I -- wait, _who are you?_ ”

“York,” Carolina said, maybe to Wash or maybe to him actually because she added, “shut up” before stepping closer to look at his head.

He blinked at the sudden proximity and took a slow breath, his nose filling with some kinda flowery shampoo. North and Maine were talking in the background, explaining things to Wash probably. But York was having trouble comprehending speech at the moment due to the fact that Carolina was touching his head, tilting his chin down and parting his hair to get a closer look at the wound. He stared down at the floor and began to babble.

“So do you live here, like, not here but on this floor or like are you on some other floor because I’m actually on the third floor, a floor down I mean, but --”

“I’m on this floor. Down the hall. Stop talking.”

“Okay -- I mean -- shit. Sorry. I mean --”

“It looks fine,” Carolina cut in, stepping back from him. “Just a minor cut. Press some gauze or something to it till the bleeding stops and take Tylenol if you have a headache.”

“Are you a doctor?” said York, because he was an idiot. He grinned belatedly in an attempt at demonstrating the joke, but she just frowned back at him.

“No.”

York swallowed. He was about to say something else equally stupid when North walked over and rested his hand on York’s shoulder.

“Well,” he said, “if we’re all done here then maybe we should go--”

“To the store to get pudding,” York interrupted, his attention quickly shifting to the matter at hand.

North brought his hand to his face and grumbled something through grit teeth that sounded kinda like “ _York you have a head injury oh my god._ ”

“It’s a _minor_ head injury,” York protested. “Carolina said! Didn't you?” He looked to her imploringly.

Carolina’s face was impassive. “Well, I’m not a doctor.”

North looked at York with the weary gaze of someone who knows he is about to lose an argument. “Can’t we go tomorrow when there are actually stores open?”

“The supermarket in town is open twenty-four hours,” said Wash. Everyone turned to look at him. He blushed and mumbled, “It said so in the welcome packet.”

York grinned. “All right, then let’s go!”

There was a pause during which York received several skeptical looks.

“All of us?” said Carolina at last.

He nodded. “Yeah man, we can fit in my truck.” They totally could. Some people would have to sit in the bed of the truck, but what would an adventure be without some danger?

“No, actually we definitely cannot,” said North.

“Sure we can, some people can fit in the back, or something...”

North folded his arms. “York. No one is riding in the bed of your truck.”

“Aw, c’mon. It’s not that bad.”

“It’s _illegal!_ ” said Wash. York was vaguely aware of his horrified expression in the background.

“I have a minivan,” rumbled Maine. “It seats six.”

There was another pause as everyone digested this. There were getting to be a lot of pauses in the room and that was never a good sign for adventures, so York interrupted.

“Great!” he said. “Let’s all go!” He gave Carolina his most winning smile, and she frowned in response.

“I wasn't going to get anything done tonight anyway,” she muttered.

“But I’m not wearing normal clothes,” said Wash, even as he struggled his way out of bed.

“Nobody else is, buddy. Pajama party,” York told him with a wink that was, in retrospect, slightly creepy.

“And I don’t really know you,” Wash continued, shifting his feet.

    “No time like the present to make new friends,” York replied, clapping him on the back.

    Wash stumbled forward. “But...this isn’t against the rules, right?” he said, glancing at Maine, who shrugged.

    “Adventures don’t have rules,” York stated as Carolina told him, “No, it’s not.”

“I don’t...I don’t know...” Wash mumbled, looking down.

“Look,” said York, tilting his head to catch Wash’s gaze, “you’re a freshman, right?”

“Yeah.” The kid’s brows were knit, but he was eyeing York carefully. Studying him.

“Right. So listen. This is college. Our parents aren’t here, man. This is pretty much the best chance you’ve ever had at having some real adventure. That minivan? That is a minivan of _opportunity_   right there. Sure, we might have a regular mundane pudding run --  or we could see Robert Downey Jr. in the cereal aisle.”

“When are you going to stop bringing that up?” North sighed.

York glanced at him. “Never. It was awesome.” He looked back to Wash, whose expression was rapidly becoming more confused. “Anyway long story short, are you gonna pass that up for a couple hours of sleep you could get any other night? Or are you getting in the minivan?”

York felt that this was a very inspiring speech. There should’ve been inspiring music but it was kind of short notice, so whatever. He snuck a quick glance at Carolina to see if she’d noticed how inspiring he was but she was staring out the window and ignoring all of them.

“FinewhateverI’llcome,” Wash said, and York’s eyes flicked back to him.

    “Awesome,” he said, beaming. “That makes all of us!”

    “You didn’t ask me,” North pointed out.

    “You’re seriously gonna let me wander off with a head injury?” York said. “You, the guy who followed me around with a box of band-aids for like three hours when I had a paper cut?”

North shook his head a little, checking a smile. “...Let’s just go to the car.”

    “Minivan,” corrected Maine.

    “Whatever.”

 

 

*

 

    It was almost soothing, Carolina thought, sitting there in the passenger's seat and watching the town streetlights gleam and then fade as the car rolled steadily along. Maine’s minivan was a horrifically bright shade of orange and spotlessly clean. He was a careful driver, making sure to inquire if they all had their seatbelts on before he drove out of Freemont Lancel's main entrance.

It _could’ve_   been soothing, had it not been for the sheer insanity of the entire thing. Even with Maine's quiet stability there was a kind of frenetic energy in the van, what with Wash's fretting and North's undercurrent of worry and York's...York-ishness.

He was sitting behind her, still holding a bit of gauze to his head at last glance and babbling on and on to everyone about how it wasn't his fault that they had to do this, it was just that they were out of pudding and being out of pudding was entirely unforgivable and besides they were overdue for some kind of adventure anyway and how come nobody had any sense of adventure around here and and and. She was about ready to turn around and tell him to shut up again when Maine drove them into the supermarket's parking lot.

There were three other cars in the customer parking area. Maine parked square in the middle of the lot and everyone piled out.

“You do realize,” said Carolina to the group at large, “that it's midnight, and we don't all entirely know each other, and we're going to the grocery store in our pajamas because someone has an unhealthy craving for pudding.”

“Yep,” York said cheerily. She avoided looking at him.    

“That about sums it up,” said North, smiling a little.

Maine just shrugged.

“Why pudding?” Wash wondered aloud. “Why not yogurt? Or applesauce? Or jello? Why is it pudding?” Carolina glanced at him. Upon closer inspection he was wearing rocketship pajamas, and she was not sure whether to be amused or slightly embarrassed.

“Why pudding?” York repeated. “Why _pudding?_   Man, let me tell you about pudding.”

He threw an arm around Wash's shoulders (this was met with uncomfortable fidgeting) and began, “So, a long, long time ago, before pudding was invented, mankind lived in a state of deep and neverending sorrow...”

Carolina rolled her eyes and started taking quick strides toward the store’s entrance.

“Heywait!” called York, and he abandoned Wash to follow her doggedly in through the automatic sliding doors.

 

 

*

 

    The supermarket was bigger than any Maine had ever seen, stretching out across aisles and aisles of fluorescent lighting and brightly-colored packagings.

    “Whoa,” said Wash beside him, and Maine grunted in agreement as they walked over to catch up to York and Carolina, North trailing behind them. Maine didn’t know a lot about North, but he gave off a general good-guy attitude when he wasn’t giving off waves of exasperation and exhaustion. And he wore a lot of superhero shirts to class. Superheroes were cool.

    “The pudding’s in aisle four,” Carolina was saying, pointing down toward the far end of the store. A scattered few bleary-eyed customers wandered around, largely ignored by the equally tired-looking employees.

    “How d’you know that already?” said York.

    Carolina pursed her lips. “ _Somebody_   has to know what’s going on.”

    York grinned. “Then lead the way, Boss,” he said, and she gave him a long look that Maine couldn’t quite read before stepping out to lead them toward the objective.

 

 

*

   

    South had been walking around the building in circles for almost an entire Angry Metal Penguins album before she finally gave in and found North’s door.

    For a second she just glared at it, like maybe if she looked hard enough North would just know she was there. But the whole twin telepathy thing had never worked out so well for the two of them, so finally she gave an irritated sigh and knocked. It was at least midnight or something by now, but North always took a walk with her when she couldn’t sleep. She didn’t know if he had class the next day but class wasn’t that important. She’d already skipped three in the past two weeks.

    No one answered the door.

    “Oh, come on,” South grumbled. At least York should’ve been awake. He was always awake. He talked too much but he was okay company if you just tuned him out after a while. Not that she couldn’t handle being on her own. It was just boring, that was all.

    She brought her fist down hard against the metal door this time, stopping just short of banging the shit out of the thing. Her knuckles stung and ached in a way that was oddly satisfying.

    Nothing.

    South huffed and dug her phone out of her pocket, tapping out a quick text and slumping against the wall to wait for a response.

_**To:**   North_

**_12:13am_ **

_where  r  u?_

 

*

The air had chilled when they emerged from the sliding doors of the supermarket, and Carolina rubbed at her arms to warm them as best she could while carrying her allotted pudding. York had originally insisted on buying ten packages, but they had managed to talk him down to five -- one for everyone. (“You cannot afford ten packs of pudding. You can’t even really afford five,” North had told him, to which York had replied, “It’s pudding. We need it.”)

    “What time is it?” North asked the group at large now. “I left my phone in the car.”

    “Almost one,” Wash said promptly.

    Almost one. She’d probably be up until two tonight with that reading. Either that or she’d wake up extra early so she could do it before running. She could almost feel her muscles protesting at the mere thought of more running, but she dismissed their complaints. There wasn’t time to rest.

“Objective achieved,” York announced as they got into the car. Maine waited again for all seatbelts to be safely clicked into place before pulling out of the lot, and Carolina tried to stop thinking about what exactly she had left to achieve tonight.

 

 

*

 

South had already gone back to her room and was well into her second Angry Metal Penguins album when her phone finally buzzed.

_**From:**   North_

_**12:57am** _

_Srry,  went  out  w/York.  do  u  need  anything?_

South looked at the message for a moment, then slapped her phone down on the shelf next to her bed. She tugged her headphones from her ears, tucked the iPod back under her pillow, and rolled over to face the wall. “I’m going to sleep,” she told Tex, who was still pouring over the same stupid book.

“Have fun with that,” Tex said, detached.

“Goodnight,” South snapped.

Tex flicked the lights off.

 

 

*

 

“Do you believe in ghosts?” York asked suddenly. They were standing outside the Necessitas building, more or less alone. North had mumbled something about his sister and disappeared, and Maine and Wash had both stumbled sleepily off toward their side of the building with a couple of tired goodbyes and vague promises to meet up for lunch sometime.

Carolina, who’d been looking absently skyward, now turned to look at York. “No. Why?”

York shrugged, smiling a little, like it didn’t much matter. “I don’t know if I do. But I could. You know. With the right evidence. They say Freelance’s haunted.”

Carolina eyed him curiously. “Freelance?”

“Oh, yeah. North and I started calling it that freshman year. Shorter than Freemont Lancel. Anyway they say the place’s haunted so I’m thinking about startin’ a ghost hunting club. You interested?” His eyes were bright and he looked earnestly hopeful, like a little kid.

“I don’t think ghost hunting is a recognized extracurricular activity,” Carolina said.

“Nah. But Club Management doesn’t need to find out.” The smile curved in a roguish grin and for a moment Carolina just allowed her eyes to rest on his face. A bit of dried blood streaked over his left temple where he’d gotten hurt. He looked good with a little imperfection.

“What’s wrong?” York asked after she’d lingered a couple of seconds too long. “Taken aback by my glorious visage?” It was a joking tone, but she could hear the barest amount of nerves creeping in.

She was making him nervous. The knowledge was surprisingly satisfying.

“You wish,” Carolina said softly. She took a few steps away, holding her lot of pudding cups. “I have to go back. It’s late.”

“Well, bye,” said York, looking a little put out, like he’d rather follow.

The words seem to spill out before she could catch them. “I don’t do goodbyes.”

York tilted his head. “No?”

“No.” She shifted the pudding cups to her other hand. “See you later, York.”

That grin broke out again. “See you later, Boss,” he said.

Carolina hid her smile as she walked away.

 

 

*

 

Connie woke up to the click of the door and the rustling of plastic. She rolled over and glanced over at her alarm clock; it declared 1:10 AM to the darkness in its familiar green glow. When she sat up she could just barely make out the outline of Carolina stepping quietly into the room, setting something down on the desk and turning toward her bed.

“Did you go jogging again?” Connie mumbled, letting her head fall back to the pillow.

Carolina’s figure froze for a second. “No,” she said quietly. “I...went out. To the store.”

“At one in the morning?” Connie said, unable to keep the bewilderment from her voice.

“It’s a long story,” Carolina replied as she climbed into bed. “Do you like pudding?”


	4. Ghost-studying

  
_There's gonna come a day when you feel better_   
_You'll rise up free and easy on that day_   
_and float from branch to branch,_   
_lighter than the air_   
_Just when that day is coming, who can say? Who can say?_

–  “Up the Wolves,” The Mountain Goats

*

Carolina Church did not believe in ghosts. Leonard Church, however, believed in exactly one.

“I saw her today,” he said over the phone now, and something inside of her bent under the weight of those words.

It shouldn’t have. This wasn’t new. He used to see her a lot during those first few years after her death, used to call her name while five-year-old Carolina looked on, trying to find her mother in every empty space. No one was ever there.

“Oh,” she said. She had long ago learned to breathe around the ache in her chest; you had to start out light and shallow. She worked to bite back every rash set of words that might drive him away until finally the right one guttered from her throat, as calm as she could manage.

"You should call the doctor.”

She had been six the first time he’d gone to the psychiatrist. There had been an aunt, her mother’s sister, who had come to usher Carolina away to the mall or the park during her father’s appointments. Or sometimes just during his bad days. And there’d been a cousin, Allie, with whom there were fierce games of tag -- the first friendship she could really remember. But three years later they moved away, and then there was only her father again.

"I feel fine," he replied in his familiar drawl.   _Ah feel fahn._  When she was little she'd loved his accent, had made him repeat the funnier sounding words. Mom would get in on it too, and they'd laugh while he feigned insult. But he'd keep saying the words for her, for them –   _Goodnah’t, deah. Goodnah’t._

Carolina cradled the phone close to her ear. “I’m worried about you.” The words rushed out, so unexpected and so true that they actually hurt, a sharp pain somewhere near her throat.

"That's not necessary," her father said at last.

The ache in her chest tightened; it was harder to breathe around. "Dad," she began, with no clear picture of an ending.

"You're at school," he interrupted.

She bit the inside of her lip and said, "Yes."

"But you’ll come back.”

She couldn't tell if it was a question or not. "For Thanksgiving. Almost two months."

"Right," he said.   _Rah’t_.  

            She shouldn’t bother to try. She shouldn’t, but -- “Dad, I just --”

“I’ll talk to you next week,” he interrupted, and hung up.

Carolina sat down in her desk chair, suddenly too tired to be standing. She set the phone down on the cool wood of the desk, aligned it carefully with the spine of her literature textbook, and stared straight ahead for a while.

Connie came in a few minutes later and Carolina jerked a little in her chair at the click of the lock.

“You okay?” Connie asked. It took Carolina a moment to realize she was being spoken to. Connie was watching her warily, almost worriedly. This was unusual concern. She must’ve looked strange enough to warrant it.

“I’m fine,” she said, trying to lighten her expression. “Just tired.”

Connie nodded like she understood. “Yeah. Midterms, right?” she sighed, tossing her bag onto the bed.

“Yeah.” Carolina nodded back, glad for an explanation, and Connie went over to her side of the room to unpack her books. And everything was normal. She was fine.

She was just tired.

*

            York was talking about Carolina again. He was sprawled out on his stomach across their tiny couch, sneakered feet hanging over the armrest. He babbled along in a starry-eyed stream of words, and North tried to be patient.

            "So I asked her, 'if you could be any animal what animal would you be,' right? And at first she was all like 'shut up York that's stupid,' which is what she says a lot..."

            "Uh-huh," North said, leaning over the desk and staring at his history paper. His not-even-half-done, due-tomorrow history paper.

            "But then, then she really thought about it, y'know, and she said maybe she'd be a bird."

            "Really." North brought his pen down again amidst the mess of scribbled out sentences on the page.   _Because of..._  No.   _As a result of the Cold War..._

"So I asked her what _kind_ of bird and she said something fast, and something that wouldn't get eaten by other birds, so I said maybe she should be like a hawk or something and _she_ said--"

            "York, don't you have homework?" North interrupted finally, setting his pen down and twisting in his chair to look over at the couch. "I mean, not that this isn't fascinating, but I have this paper, so..."

            York did not appear to be offended by the interruption. He sat up and shrugged, foot tapping on the tile floor. "Man, I'm tired of homework."

            "Actually, I don't think I've seen you do any homework so far this year," North said. "And after last semester you can't afford to --"

            "South isn't doing her homework," York interrupted, nodding toward North's bed.

            South was curled there with an Avengers comic from North's shelf and her headphones in, music playing loud enough that North could recognize one of her favorite punk rock albums. Something about penguins. She noticed the two of them looking at her and yanked out an earbud. "What?" she snapped.

            "Hey man. You're not doing homework," York explained.

            South glowered. "Shut up, asshole."

            "Love you too," York replied sweetly. She rolled her eyes, popped the earbud back in, and resumed glaring at the comic book. North shook his head and smiled a little. York was one of the only people who could even approach teasing his sister without losing a limb. Even back when the other kids in their high school all but refused to make eye contact with her, York had never seemed particularly bothered by her prickliness. In fact the three of them had been best friends back in high school -- York leading them off on ridiculous adventures, South complaining the whole way but in the end laughing at York's dumb jokes, North bribing the both of them to study parties with promises of pizza...

            Wait.

            North cleared his throat. "Hey man, you know what we haven't done in a while?"

            York gave him a curious look. "Gone to the coffee shop? We should do that. I agree."

            North blinked. "No. We did that yesterday."

            "Yeah, but that was a while ago," York said, getting to his feet. "We should go. Probably right now, since it's a Sunday and they close in like half an hour--"

            "No," North interrupted firmly. "I was gonna say a study party."

            "Oh." York shifted from foot to foot, appearing to mull it over. "Does said study party include...?"

            North sighed. "Yes, I'll buy a pizza."

            "Awesome." York grinned, eyes lighting up. "Might wanna make that two."

            "But there's only three of -- wait. Who are you inviting?"

            "Carolina, Carolina, and Carolina," South guessed, and they both looked over at her; she'd apparently taken out her headphones at some point during the conversation and was watching them with the calculating interest of someone who knew that she'd soon be getting free pizza.

            "Nah, I was thinking Carolina, Wash, Maine, and that girl Wash likes," York said, and North could see the wheels in his head turning, the party forming, becoming bigger and more elaborate than was going to be physically possible.

            Well. Couldn't be helped now.

            "What girl?" North asked wearily.

            "He means Connie," South said. "She and that Wash kid are in my computer class and they're always staring at each other like they're in a friggin' chick flick." She folded her hands and gazed lovingly into the distance, eyes dreamy with mock adoration.

            York laughed as South dropped the act and rolled her eyes in contempt at... North wasn't sure. Possibly the idea of romance.

            "Okay, but you realize seven people aren't gonna fit in our room, right?" North said, steering them back to the matter at hand.

            "Yeah man, we'll just take over the upstairs common room," York replied. "We can push all the couches together and play music from your laptop and --"

            "Fine, okay, whatever," North said, faint regret and inane facts about the Cold War merging uselessly in his head. "You can figure that part out and I'll go get the pizza if you give me your keys. Meet at seven o'clock?"

            "Copy that," York said, saluting messily and making for the door. "I'm gonna go tell Carolina," he added, pausing on his way out to dig his keys from his pocket and toss them in North's general direction. North lunged to catch them before they hit Wyoming's cage.

            "Jesus," said South, climbing off North's bed and stretching. "What's so great about her anyway? I've seen her around. She's kind of a bitch."

            North shrugged, pocketing the keys. "Maybe he's in love."

            South snorted. "Maybe he's insane."

            "Well. That too."

*

            "Are you insane?" asked Wash, yanking open the door. York, still poised in knocking position, nearly fell into him. "You only have to knock   _once._ "

"Yeah, but you didn't open the door," York explained, pushing past Wash and roaming into the room as though it belonged to him. He showed up often enough that it was a plausible theory. They’d had plenty of video game sessions since the whole pudding incident, and the group at large tended to eat together in the cafeteria whenever they happened to run into each other. Apparently a late night grocery run combined with a minor head injury was all it took to establish a friendship.

"We were playing Xbox," Wash said. "We had to pause it first." Maine grunted in assent from his bed, where he had already continued fighting aliens in some game called   _Helio_  or whatever. (Wash had never really gotten into the whole space-alien-war thing; he much preferred NASCAR. Simple rules, simple goals. Life was complicated enough without adding aliens into the mix.)

            "Oh, cool. Hey Maine," York said, picking up one of Wash's model rockets and prodding at it with a careless curiosity that made Wash bite his lip to keep from snapping at him.

            "So...what's up?" Wash said instead, eyeing York as he set the rocket back down (crooked) on the shelf amongst the others.

             "Party planning," York said cheerfully.  "We're gonna take over the common room upstairs. Hardcore study party. North's getting pizza and everything. You guys free in about an hour?"

            "Um, sure," Wash said before he fully understood what he was agreeing to. York had a way of doing that. "I mean..." He glanced helplessly at Maine, who rumbled, "We'll go."

            "Cool," York said, then hesitated, hovering near the doorway. "So, uh, do either of you happen to know where Carolina lives? Because I never actually asked because I thought it'd be creepy so I don't really know but I kinda need to know right now – because of the whole study party thing, not because I’m a creeper, just--"

            "Down the hall," Maine interrupted, before Wash could even hope to make sense of the mess of words. "On the left."

            York's face lit up. "Thanks, man!" he said, and bolted out the door.

            Wash raked a hand through his hair. "Um. That was…interesting?" he said to Maine, turning back to sit on his bed where the abandoned Xbox controller awaited him.

But Maine had paused the game to look at Wash, like something had suddenly occurred to him.

“What?” Wash asked. “Is something on my face?” Oh god something was probably on his face. How long had it been there? All day? Had Connie seen it earlier at lunch? Oh god maybe it was ketchup, he knew he shouldn't have had those fries. He rubbed at his cheek furiously with his sweatshirt sleeve.

“No,” said Maine. “Connie rooms with Carolina.”  

Wash stopped assaulting his face. “She does?”  

Maine nodded.  

Wash gazed at the door for a second, then leapt up and flew through it. “York!” he called. “York, wait up!”

*

            For some reason York’s appearance on her doorstep did not particularly surprise Carolina. He was grinning, as always, with that complicated mixture of hope and mischief and vague apprehension that he seemed to project toward her most of the time now. Wash trailed behind him, panting slightly, his left cheek sort of reddened like he'd scratched at it.

            “Do you need something?”  Carolina said, shoulders square, looking directly at York. She would stare him down and then maybe he'd leave, and she could go back to staring blankly at the ceiling instead of at a boy whose grin made her feel like being someone else. But York's eyes just flicked from hers and then back again like he couldn’t quite resist the temptation of a staring contest.

“Hey man,” said York. “How’s it going?”

“Is...Connie...” added Wash, then looked too confused to continue.

Carolina was tempted to raise an eyebrow and reply, “Is Connie _what?_ ”, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to prolong his anxiety.        

            “Connie’s here,” she said, stepping to the side as Connie wandered over curiously at the sound of her name.

            “Wash? What's...How are you?” she said, and in those few words she was changed; she was someone both gentler and more nervous than the reserved, sarcastic Connie that Carolina was accustomed to from their brief interactions. (She shouldn't have been surprised, she told herself. It wasn't like they were friends or anything.)

            “Hi,” said Wash. He was shifting his feet anxiously. Carolina exchanged a glance with York, who shrugged. “Do you, uh...”

            He stalled for a few seconds longer, and York dove in smoothly. “Do you guys wanna come to the most hardcore study party the universe has ever seen? There'll be food and everything. Top floor common room. Starts at seven but set-up is now. Only the cool kids are invited.”  His grin went charmingly crooked and Carolina tried not to think about how that made her feel.

            “Yeah,” said Connie, glancing at York. “Sure. I’ll get my stuff.”

            Wash’s relief was painfully palpable as she emerged with an armful of books, and together they started down the hallway as though mutually agreeing that neither Carolina nor York mattered much.

"I think there's something on your face," Carolina heard Connie tell Wash as they rounded the corner toward the stairs.

            “Well?” said York, hovering outside the door. “Are you coming?”

            He looked so puppydog-eager that she wanted to laugh, but she couldn’t seem to scrape up the energy. So she shook her head.

“I’m busy,” she said. This got her an exceedingly sorry look.

            “We’re all busy, man,” York said, rallying. “That’s why we’re having a study party. C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

            “I’m   _busy_ ,” she repeated, trying to look directly at him without   _really_  looking at him. Something about his eyes had the power to dissuade her from arguments; she had learned this the hard way over the past few weeks of eating breakfasts and lunches together. “I have a lot to do.”

            York nodded, hope rising in his smile. “So do we, we’re just doing it together. There’s gonna be pizza, did I mention there was gonna be pizza?”

            “You mentioned food.”

            “Pizza isn’t food. Pizza transcends food.”

            Carolina gave a noise of frustration. “York --”

            “Please?” he said.

            She tried not to look at his eyes. She really did.

            “How long is this thing going to be, anyway?” she asked gruffly, and York smiled.

            “As long as you want it to be,” he said in his smoothest voice.

She shot him a sharp look and he flinched, chastised.

“...I mean, y’know, however long,” he corrected. “...Please?” he said again.

            She was so tired. But it occurred to her suddenly that she would rather not be this kind of tired in an empty room. So she said, "Fine," with the weariness of someone out of options.

            “Great,” said York, beaming like she’d bestowed some great honor upon him. Maybe he had noticed her tiredness because he said very seriously, “You’re gonna have a good time, man, I’ll make sure of it -- okay that came out sorta weird but yeah it’ll be fun, don’t worry.”

            “I’m not worried,” said Carolina. She ducked back into the room and he followed her, looking around as she selected a few books and supplies.

            "You don't have a lot on your walls," he observed.

            She didn't. She had a small Beatles poster which she'd purchased earlier this week, mostly because it was three dollars at the college bookstore and the blankness of her walls was starting to depress her. And one photo of the lake near her house, its surface lit gold by the setting sun. She went there whenever she needed to feel calm; it was one of the few places she could remember being with her mother. She'd carefully taped the lake photo up by her bed so she could look at it before she went to sleep, if she wanted to.

            "I'm hardly here anyway," Carolina said, which was true. She was always out at class or jogging or whatever. Just walking around campus sometimes. Staying in the room too long made her feel a little anxious, like the world was starting to get away from her while she wasn't looking.

            "Where do you go?" York asked, and she glanced back at him as she gathered her books.

            "Wherever I want."

            York smiled. It was softer than his grins. She liked it better.

            "Carolina," he started, his tone quieter than usual. "I was wondering --"

            And then she tripped on her way to the desk, sending her books cascading to the floor in a series of loud thumps. York hurried to help her, cracking some stupid-funny joke about runaway novels, and Carolina didn't ask what he'd been wondering.

*

            Wash felt a slight panic when he realized that he and Connie were the first ones there. They stood awkwardly at the threshold of the common room, looking around at the sparse furnishings.

            "Guess we get first dibs on the couches," Connie said, and Wash tried to smile normally at her. Except. Wait. She wanted to share a couch with him. This was important. Probably he was supposed to say something suave and intelligent and, um, charming or something -- except no, he wasn't York, he couldn't pull that off. But that was okay, he assured himself, because he didn't   _want_   to be York. York had a thing for Carolina and Carolina was   _scary_... Aaand, shit, Connie was looking at him a little funny right now.

            "Guess so," Wash said, shrugging with a casualness that he hoped to god she couldn't tell was forced.

            She smiled at him, eyebrows slightly raised, and for a terrifying moment he thought she could see right through his attempts at normalcy. And for an even-more-terrifying moment, he sort of thought he wanted her to.

            "Come on," she said, sounding amused, and he followed her over to the couch to wait for the others to arrive.

*

            The study party started out well enough. Carolina sat cross-legged on the floor with her American Short Stories textbook and a notebook in her lap, York lounging comfortably beside her and asking the occasional question about their reading while the others shared the room’s two small couches. North was scribbling away in his notebook, mumbling things about the Cold War every now and then while his sister glared at a biology textbook. Maine, who'd shown up late ("Playing   _Helio_ ," he explained), sat beside North and seemed to be painstakingly drawing some sort of architectural blueprint. Meanwhile Wash and Connie were deep in conversation about their physics class, rattling off equations that made little sense to Carolina. She had always struggled with mathematics, had always had to fight for her As in those classes.

            Everything was going   _surprisingly_  well, actually. The pizzas were devoured in no time at all and the studying commenced without much of a hitch other than South occasionally cursing at her textbook. Carolina was just starting to relax a little when York brought up ghosts again.          

            "It's cold in here all of the sudden," South complained, and York looked at her keenly.

            "They say that's a sign of a spiritual presence," he told her, and North stopped his scribbling to give York a warning look.

            "Oh my god, please don't start talking about ghosts again," South said, rolling her eyes. She rolled her eyes a lot, Carolina had noticed, and did so deftly, communicating vast quantities of contempt in the smallest of gestures.

            "It's a good topic," York argued, and South huffed and turned back to her textbook.

            "We're supposed to be studying, York," North reminded him patiently.

            "We are," said York, cracking a grin. "We're ghost-studying."

            “Not this again,” sighed North.

            “This again,” confirmed York. “It’s a great idea.”

            “It’s a terrible idea.”

            York’s expression grew solemn. “Terrible, yes, but great.”

            “Stop quoting Harry Potter.”

            “But you   _love_  Harry Potter.”

            Carolina was just about to tell them both to knock it off when North announced, "I'm ignoring you now," and turned away from York.

            "Me too," South added. The others had only glanced at York before returning to their activities, his banter apparently fading into their background.

            "So," said Carolina after a moment of quiet, her voice low. "You have a ghost fixation."

            York shrugged lightly. "I wouldn't call it a   _fixation_. I'm just curious, man. I mean, I just think it'd be cool if they were real, y'know?"

            "Not really," Carolina said shortly, and she ignored his puzzled glance.

            "But they   _are_  real," said Connie, and everyone looked at her in surprise. She'd spoken in a clear, confident tone and did not seem at all perturbed by the sudden attention. "There's evidence," she said firmly. "There are books and studies and everything."

            Carolina thought about all the books on Connie's shelves with titles like   _The Truth About the Moon Landing_ and   _Lies From Your Government_ and   _UFOs: What They Don't Want You to Know_.  She decided to give Connie a pass this time.

            "Yeah," said York enthusiastically. "Yeah, I mean, it could happen, right? I feel like there's gotta be   _something_ after you die, y'know?"

            "Um, no, there doesn't," South countered, closing her textbook and sitting up a little straighter as North shot her a wary glance. "Just because it's comforting to believe people don't die for good doesn't mean they don't still die for good. People are alive and then they're dead. That's it. So fucking deal with it."

            “Jeez, you’re a regular ray of sunshine tonight,” said York, stretching his arms and shifting a little. “Look, I just feel like it’s possible. That there are ghosts. It’s not   _im_ possible, y’know? Nothing’s impossible.”

            “ _Lots_ of things are impossible,” South countered.

            “Yeah,” said Wash, frowning thoughtfully. “But science changes all the time. The textbooks are always being rewritten.”

            South shook her head. “What, so you believe in ghosts? Aren't you like a physics major or something? Isn't that sorta thing illegal for you guys?”

            Wash’s ears turned red. “I-- I don’t know, I just--”

            “I believe in them,” Connie said clearly, and for a moment she and South just glared at each other.

            “Then you're an idiot,” South said coldly. Connie looked as though she was going to respond in kind, but then she just shook her head and focused on her notebook full of equations again.

            "Believe what you want," she muttered, and South snorted.

            "At least what   _I_ want to believe isn't fucking insane," she grumbled, but fell silent after that.

             Carolina stared hard at her book and tried to lose herself in the words again, to let them form a buffer between her and the rest of the world. She tried to stop thinking about her father's research all spread across the living room floor at home -- hundreds of notebooks filled with incomprehensible scrawlings about how to reverse death, thousands of pages filled with the evidence of his illness. Which he wasn't taking medication for anymore. Because she had left.

            She bit the inside her lip and willed herself to focus, stop thinking, just read.

            It wasn't working.

            "I have to go," she said, standing with a suddenness that left her dizzy. "It's getting late."

            "But it's only eight-thirty." York was gazing up at her with -- what, concern? She couldn't tell.

            "I have a lot to do," she said mechanically. She felt everyone's eyes on her. Saw North looking worried out of the corner of her vision. Felt sick. Needed to go outside.

            "Without your stuff?" York asked, nodding at the pile of books she'd left stranded on the floor.

            "No," said Carolina with a flash of irritation, kneeling down and swiping them into her arms. She refused to look at York and instead quickened her pace, forcing the stiffness from her legs.

            "Wait," said York, scrambling to his feet. "Carolina, don't --"

            She slipped out the door and headed down the stairs two at a time.

            Outside. She would feel better outside.

*

            “She’s fast,” noted Wash as Carolina disappeared.

            “Yeah. She's fast. Real observant,” York said, and winced inwardly at the small but surprised flicker of hurt on Wash's face. "Look, I'll -- I'll be right back," he said, and went jogging out into the hall.       

            "Well, that was dramatic," said South sardonically in the silence that followed York's exit.

*

            He finally found her standing on the sidewalk in front of the building, half-lit by a streetlamp, books clutched close to her chest. Her breath came slow and measured, soft clouds drifting into the cold night air. She stared out across the parking lot like she was waiting for a ride.

            "Hey," said York, and she startled toward his voice. He'd never seen her look like that -- almost scared. It made him lower his tone a little. "So...are you working outside then?"

            "I just needed some air first," Carolina said. She shifted the books and stared down at them, hair falling across her eyes.

            York stepped closer. “I don't know if anybody's ever told you this," he said seriously, "But there’s air inside too."

            This got him an irritated look, but at least she was   _looking_  at him.

            “Do you have to be here right now?” she snapped.

            He tilted his head a little. “I...no, man, I can go. Just, you seemed upset?”

            “I’m just tired,” Carolina said, her voice devoid of emotion.

            “Maybe you should take a nap,” said York stupidly.

            She stared at him, expression unreadable. “Go back to your party,” she said, her voice a little softer.

            “You should come back too,” York said stubbornly.

            “I can’t work with that much noise," Carolina answered, shaking her head.

            “We’ll be quieter.”

            “No, you won’t.”

            “Yeah, but we'll try.”

            Carolina gazed out at the parking lot again. “I’ll come back for a few minutes,” she said finally.

            York broke out in a grin. “Awesome," he said, "'cause I was totally gonna fail the test tomorrow without you."

            She raised a brow at him. "No you weren't. You know the material."

            "Only 'cause you walked me through it," York insisted, and when she smiled he couldn't help but feel like he'd won something.

            "Let's get back to it, then," she said, and he gave her a hearty "yessir," as he followed her back toward the building.

            Making her laugh, he thought, felt like winning the goddamn lottery.

*

            There was no more ghost talk. In fact everyone was suspiciously quiet when they arrived back at the common room, and Carolina tried to ignore the way South was eyeing her with open criticism. She sat back down on the floor, set up her books, and continued reading as though nothing had happened. York's occasional questions ("I don't get it, what's with the bananafish dude?") floated toward her without disturbing her, and she answered them calmly. It was relaxing, almost, and she hardly paid attention to the sounds of the others gathering up papers and zipping their bags as they headed in for the night one by one (or two, as in Wash and Connie's sakes). She heard their "goodnights" and murmured them back, but it was only when Maine rumbled, "See you later" on his way out the door that she looked up and realized everyone had gone.

            "What time is it?" she asked York, disoriented. He checked his cell phone.

            "Elevenish," he answered.

            "Late," she said.

            "Later than eight-thirty," York agreed, and she gave him a look that turned his teasing smile into an apology.

            "I should go," she said, rising. This time she remembered her books.

             York trailed her to the door. "Breakfast tomorrow?" he said casually as they headed into the hall. It was quiet now, devoid of the usual scattered, wandering students. "I hear they're serving their always-delectable French toast surprise."

            "Sure. I'll be the one avoiding the surprise," Carolina said dryly, and York grinned.

            "Aw, but that's the best part."

            They paused by the staircase down to his floor, and for a strange moment Carolina was struck by an idiotic desire to tell him everything about her, and about how somehow he made her feel like she   _could_ tell him things.

            Instead she swallowed and said, "Goodnight."

            York smiled. "Night, man. Thanks in advance for saving my ass tomorrow."

            She rolled her eyes with a wry, "Anytime," and he gave her one last glimpse of that grin before disappearing down the stairs.

            Carolina looked after him for a while, then wandered back toward her room, wondering vaguely if he was right about the French toast.

 


	5. Midterm Monsters

                It was a beautiful October morning. Multicolored leaves were fluttering down across a bright blue sky, the cafeteria was bursting with preemptive Halloween streamers and pumpkins, and York was being forced to study.

            In the  _morning_.

        "I don't get this," York announced, drumming his fingers on the opened literature textbook, his half-eaten plate of soggy French toast shoved to the side. Usually he would've cleaned the plate, soggy or not, but Carolina had insisted on forcing him to study before class. And North had wholeheartedly _, traitorously_  agreed before making a mysterious disappearance. Totally unfair. A guy needed his coffee before he got hit with words like 'metonym' and 'abstraction.' And York was only three-quarters of the way through his coffee. A guy needed  _all_  his coffee to deal with abstraction.

            Carolina eyed him across the cafeteria table. "You're not even trying," she accused. Her own book was already full of highlighting and notes -- tabbed pages, color-coding, the whole thing. Sometimes it scared him how legit she was.

            York leaned back in his chair, propping it up on two legs. "I am, just...I'm more of an  _auditory_  learner, y'know? Talking. I like talking."

            "I'm aware," said Carolina dryly. "Have you tried reading out loud?"

            York blinked. "Oh. Yeah, man, I mean I guess I could, but then I'd have to concentrate on what I was saying and I'd probably say it all wrong, y'know, mispronounce words and just--"

            Carolina held a hand up to stop him. "Okay. Look. We have twenty minutes. I'm going to read the poem out loud. You're going to listen. Got it?"

            York let the chair fall gently forward and gave her his best salute. "Sure, boss."

            "Good." Carolina lifted her book up and took a breath and York tried not to dwell too much on the way her eyes darkened when she got all serious like that because if he started thinking about her then he wouldn't be listening at all.

            "'I heard a Fly buzz - when I died -,'" Carolina began, and-- okay, she was barely through the first line, but York couldn't help the interruption. He couldn't help any of them. His mouth just started moving and the words came out and she was glaring but he kept talking anyway.

            "Man, that's depressing. This poem is depressing. How come all these poems are so depressing? Poetry is--"

            "--what your test is on, so shut up and listen," Carolina said curtly. "I'm  _trying_  to  _help_  you."

            "...Sorry, man."

            She sighed and continued.

"'The Stillness in the Room

Was like the Stillness in the Air -

Between the Heaves of Storm -"

            The room wasn't still at all though -- it was full of disheveled students frantically flipping through textbooks and typing on laptops or scribbling into notebooks, their breakfasts forgotten or never retrieved. October was falling hard upon them; it was officially Midterm Season. Last year York had managed to avoid the whole thing, gliding through his classes without studying for a single test. He never did  _well_ , exactly, but he'd passed. Last year had been an exercise in coasting.

            This year, there was Carolina.

"The Eyes around - had wrung them dry -

And Breaths were gathering firm"

            Her voice slowly softened as she read, and it drew York so far in that he had to struggle to understand the actual  _words_  she was saying. They didn't seem to matter so much as the rhythm, the way she got all quiet and the way her face relaxed just a little -- enough. Enough to make him stare a few seconds too long. He looked back down at his book, scanning the page to catch the line she was on.

"For that last Onset - when the King

Be witnessed - in the Room -"

            He glanced up again. The light from the window was casting her hair a deep red-gold, and a few thin strands were already loose from her ponytail. She never seemed to care much about her hair, just brushed it aside like there were a million way more important things to worry about.

"I willed my Keepsakes - Signed away

What portion of me be

Assignable - and then it was

There interposed a Fly -"

            He wish he knew what worried her so much.

"With Blue - uncertain - stumbling Buzz -

Between the light - and me -"

               Even when she smiled at him she was worrying.

"And then the Windows failed - and then

I could not see to see -'"

           Carolina set down the book and looked at him expectantly.

            "Wait," said York. "That's it?"

            She raised her eyebrows. "Yes."

            York ran a hand through his hair, glancing at the page and scanning the poem quickly from the bottom up. "Okay, yeah, but...'Could not see to see'? How can you not  _see_  to  _see?_  And what's a fly even doing in there? How's it blue? Is it some kinda prehistoric fly? Is this some kinda Jurassic Park thing?" (When in doubt, crack a dumb joke. It was a pretty successful policy.)

            Carolina's solemn expression did not change. "Yes. It's a Jurassic Park thing. That's exactly what the poem is about. You're going to ace this exam. You might even get a poetry medal."

            He tossed her a grin. "Man, I hope it's a trophy. Way more impressive. Although I could  _wear_  a medal..."

            "York," said Carolina, "the test is in fifteen minutes."

            "Yeah, man, don't worry about it. I got this," York lied, waving a hand at her and looking away before she realized how terrible he was at lying. He downed the last quarter of his now-lukewarm coffee. It was mostly liquefied sugar at the bottom but that was just a bonus.

            Carolina frowned. "If you don't pass this --"

            "I  _got_  this, boss," York repeated, and tried out a winning smile.

            Carolina looked doubtful.

            "I'm going to read it again," she said. "Pay attention this time."

            "I was totally paying attention," York protested.

            She raised her eyebrows at him again. "No," she said. "You were looking at me."

            York opened his mouth to dispute this but nothing came out.

            "This time, listen." And her voice slipped back into the poetry.

            York listened so hard his ears were buzzing like a prehistoric blue fly, and he watched the light catch her hair, and he didn't understand a single word.

*

            The new  _Alien Punchers_  movie was out today.

            The physics midterm was also today.

            These two facts were making Connie's life surprisingly difficult. Every time she opened her textbook to do some last minute studying all she could think about were explosions and lasers and badass ladies and macho guys in space helmets, all flailing madly across the big screen in a screeching, tangled, improbable wreck of an action film. Just like the first movie, it would be terrible. _So_  bad. Maybe worse than the first one. Definitely worse than the books. Critics would write scathing reviews and parents would cringe when their children asked to go and see it.

            But Connie -- well, Connie would stare in awe at the wreckage. She would glory in the awful clichés and the ridiculous interplanetary chase scenes. When Major Sergeant General Roberta Riot delivered her classic catchphrase ("I'll punch you  _straight to HELL!_ "), Connie would mouth the words along with her. And in a few months, she'd buy the thing in deluxe-edition blu-ray.   

            She just had to get through this midterm first. Which meant she had to find Wash, because no way she was going to be able to concentrate alone in her room. And he was probably sitting outside the classroom studying right now anyway. He'd probably been out there all night. Not that he needed it; Wash seemed to know all the information already, could rattle off equations like it was nothing. When Connie had attempted to point out to him that he was maybe a physics genius, he had only given her a quizzical look. "I have to know it," he'd said. "It's going to be on the test."

            It was a wonder he and Carolina didn't get along better. But he seemed to be afraid of her, and she hardly seemed to notice his existence during the now-weekly study sessions in the fourth floor common room. To be entirely fair Carolina hardly noticed anybody's existence save for her own and the professors' and York's (and York didn't entirely count since he sort of forced everyone to acknowledge him), but the point still stood.

            The study group was one of those small miracles that made Connie feel slightly suspicious. She kept waiting for something to dissolve their mismatched little crowd, but so far they still came.  _Everyone_  came. As far as Connie could figure it, Wash was there because York was there and York was his friend. Connie was there because Wash was there. North and South seemed to come as a set and North generally followed York, so there was South. Maine was there mostly because of Wash but also because he was friends with Carolina. And Carolina showed up for...York, probably. She seemed to have taken it upon herself to become his personal literature tutor.

            So it all went back to York. What was it about him? Did he have some kind of mind control powers, like Tyrana Wreck, Roberta Riot's second-in-command? Would Tyrana be in the second movie? She had to be, she was  _important_ , but there had been rumors online...

            Connie shook her head. She really, really needed to go find Wash.

            She stood up, gathered her physics materials, and strode quickly out the door, zipping up her _Alien Punchers_ sweatshirt and wondering if Roberta Riot's uniform would be true to the books this time.

            *

            Wash sat down with his back firmly against the wall outside the physics classroom. He was ready. He was  _so_  ready. He was gonna do it, and it was gonna be  _done_ , and then he could stop  _worrying_  about it.

            He was gonna probably do pretty okay on the physics exam, too, but Wash barely had room to think about that with the influx of Connie-thoughts that made his mouth feel like cotton and his heart beat a crooked, heavy rhythm.

            Last night, after the study group, he'd been sitting in bed for a good twenty minutes just staring at his hands. They were smudged with ink from leaning over Connie's notebook. He'd been helping her get her math straight, and she had been watching him work, and he'd gotten all flustered and smudged everything until it was all an indistinguishable mess of ink. And she had laughed, and he had...sort of imploded?

            It was hard to describe just exactly what her laugh had ignited in him, but it was something that had left him with a mild taste of terror. Hours later he still felt it deep in his stomach, forcing his concentration to break down into useless little pieces.

            Finally Wash had looked helplessly over to Maine (who was doing some sort of architect stuff at his desk) and blurted out, "How do you talk to girls?"

            Maine paused in the middle of his drawing and turned toward Wash. "Like you talk to people," he said, shrugging his wide shoulders. He didn't seem at all perturbed by the question, like he'd almost expected it.

            "Yeah, but--" Wash started, then stopped, flushing.  _But I don't know how to talk to people_ , he'd been about to say.

            "Ask her to a movie," Maine rumbled calmly.

            Wash rubbed at the ink on his hands. "I can't just  _ask_  her," he said.

            Maine frowned. "Why?"

            "Because...what if..." Wash shook his head a little.

            "She won't say no."

            "She might," Wash said.

            Maine shrugged again. "Might not." He turned around and bent over his drawing again, the conversation apparently over, and Wash was left to contemplate the relative worth of a "might not."

            It had, it turned out, been worth looking up showtimes at the little movie theater on Main Street. He had written them all down this morning in his student planner just in case. And he'd left extra early, so he had time to run through his lines in his head.

_Hey, Connie, I was just wondering...would you want to see a movie sometime?_

_Hey, Connie, do you maybe want to go see a movie tonight?_

_Hey, Connie, do you...like movies?_

            They got stupider the more he dwelled on them. But that was okay. He had time to fix them. She wouldn't be here for another--

            "Hey, Wash," came Connie's voice as she rounded the corner, and Wash's eyes widened at her before he could stop himself. She was wearing dark skinny jeans and a giant Alien Punchers sweatshirt that drowned her thin frame. It made her look tiny. And subsequently adorable. Wash did not know what to do in the face of Adorable.

            "Hi," he managed. "Hi."

               Why was he repeating himself? _Jake Gyllenhaal probably never repeats himself,_  Wash's inner voice told him snidely.   _Shut up_ , he told his inner voice, then felt a little proud when it actually worked.

            "Hi," Connie said, smiling at him curiously. "Um...are you okay?"

            "I'm fine," Wash said quickly. "I'm really fine, I'm really...a lot...finedoyoulikemovies."

            Connie blinked. "What?"

            Oh god. What was wrong with him. He'd chosen the  _worst possible line_  out of all his lines. "Do you like movies?" Wash repeated, because he was a terrible repetitive person who repeated things repeatedly.

            Connie nodded cautiously. "Yeah," she said. "I do."

            Wash swallowed. "Okay, um,  _Alien Punchers 2_  is playing at nine tonight and I, um, I know it's kinda late but I know you like the books so I was wondering if maybe you wanted to--"

            "Yeah," Connie interrupted, brightening. "Definitely."

            "Cool," said Wash. "Um. Yeah. Cool." He tried very hard not to grin like a crazy person, or York (they were basically the same thing). Instead he managed a nearly neutral smile.

            "So," said Connie, "do you want to go over chapter five, or...."

            "Yeah," Wash said quickly, scrambling to open his textbook. "Yeah, sure."

            Connie smiled and sat down beside him, peering over his shoulder as he found the place they'd stopped at last night.

            "You still have ink all over your hands," she told him, and Wash's ears went pink.

               "I tried to get it out, but --"

               "It's a good look," Connie assured him. "Makes you look scholarly."

               "Thanks," Wash managed, his ears now reddening, and cleared his throat to read chapter five's summary.

*

            "Carolina," said York, pacing alongside her as they made their usual trek over to the estate. Each of his strides equalled two of her steps, so he kept slowing himself down only to bound too far forward again; he couldn't quite match her. It was cold for October, and Carolina hugged her books a little tighter to her chest as York backpedaled again to stay beside her. "Carolina, listen..."

               "Yes?" she said, glancing at him.

               York looked very seriously back at her as he walked, his eyebrows knit in concern. "If I don't come out of that classroom alive, I want you to have my record collection."

            Carolina allowed herself a small, exasperated smile. "You have a record collection?"

            "Yeah, man," York said cheerfully. "Mostly The Beatles. Some jazz. It was my dad's. I'm gonna need you to play each record once per day, so they don't get lonely or anything, and--"

            "You'll be fine," Carolina told him. There was no use waiting for him to finish his sentence because he'd be onto another sentence before she had time to interject. York babbled nonstop on a good day; on a bad day he babbled even more. She had learned that there was no escaping the babbling; it was simply a part of his...general Yorkishness.

            They came to a halt before the steps of the estate, and York smiled at her. "'Course I will," he said, looking like he almost meant it. "I'm not worried."

             That second part he definitely _did_ mean. That second part was basically his entire academic struggle wrapped up neatly in three words, as far as Carolina could tell.

            "I know you're not," she sighed, and climbed up the steps to open the door.

*

            Wash carved deftly through equation after equation, his pen gliding swiftly across the page. _Nine o'clock_ , thrummed his mind happily somewhere behind the mathematics and the residual nerves. _Movie._

               It was such a dramatic victory that he couldn't even manage to be worried about it yet. Later he'd obsess over seats and popcorn and tickets and protocol. But for now, he had won.

*

            It wasn't that Connie was bad at physics -- half the time she asked Wash for help it was just to see the oddly endearing professionalism that came over him when he talked about physics -- but she did find it challenging.

            So she paused between each question to gather her thoughts before tackling the next one. She let her eyes rest on the back of Wash's head as he bent over his desk, pen flying. And she tried not to smile. It was weird to smile in the middle of an exam. Flowers would probably think she was cheating or something. But really, Wash and _Alien Punchers_ scheduled together in one room? That _had_ to be cheating somehow.

*

            Maine sat quietly at his desk and stared at his blueprints, waiting for his architecture professor to call them up to present their assignments. He'd been working all semester on designing this house. The assignment had been to create a space specifically to accommodate a certain kind of lifestyle.

            He had chosen to accommodate seven lifestyles. At each study party he'd listened carefully, rearranging lines and space until he got it as right as he could.

            There was an exercise room with wide windows and plenty of space for a treadmill. There was a gaming room, and a reading room, and built-in shelves shaped perfectly for comics. One bedroom had the wiring space for a complete speaker system, in case you wanted to blast your music, and soundproof walls in case other people didn't want to hear it. The kitchen had a full coffee bar.

            He hadn't shown it to anyone yet. He wanted to at least show Wash, but something kept stopping him. Maybe when he got his grade back.

               "Sigmund Maine?" called Professor Simmons.

               Maine stood and walked slowly to the front of the room, blueprints in hand.

               "For whom did you design your house, Sigmund?" Simmons asked, smiling and pushing his glasses up slightly.

               Maine glanced at the class, then back down at his project. "I made this," he began, "for my friends."

*

            The midterm was open-ended, and Carolina was sitting all the way across the room at her usual front-row desk, and York couldn't stop lifting his eyes every now and then to look for her. Like she would've moved when he was busy scrawling out his haphazard interpretations of Dickinson and Wordsworth. The third time he looked up he accidentally caught Delta's eye, so he offered the professor a sheepish grin and stared back down at his paper before he caught a reprimand, too.

            It was too quiet in here. Just scratching pens and pencils and the occasional tapping foot or heavy sigh. He always had this problem during tests. If the professors would just, like, play a little music...

            He should play Carolina some music. Some of his records. He could play her some Beatles and then maybe she wouldn't be so worried.

            She liked him, didn't she? Everybody liked him.

            But Carolina wasn't everybody.

            York frowned, tapping the tip of his pen thoughtfully on the page.  _What are three themes present in Dickinson's "I heard a Fly buzz -- when I died --"? Please support your answer with lines from the poem._

             _1._   _Sight,_  wrote York, quickly cramming "I could not see to see" in beside the word as a supporting line. Um. What else. Flies? No. Themes. Death? Yeah. That was always a good bet with poetry.

             _2\. Death_ , York scrawled.  _Which is kinda depressing. How come we never read anything uplifting? I guess we read a couple stories that weren't depressing. Maybe like two poems. But a lot of them are about people who die and who know people who die. Maybe we could read something that doesn't have dead people in it. Just a thought. This theme applies to pretty much every line of this poem. Especially the first one._

            Okay, no. That was not going to get him even a passing grade. What had happened to his coasting capabilities? He thought he'd honed them last year...

            York scratched out the paragraph and started again, this time in his Good Student voice. He tried to remember what Carolina had told him, about how the little details were important.

_2\. Death. This poem is about the death of the narrator. It focuses in on small, significant details like people's breath and the fly buzzing..._

            Someone dropped a pen. York's eyes lifted and went straight to Carolina.

*

            "All right," said Professor Delta in his calm, even voice. "You have one minute left. When you are finished, you may leave your exams in a pile on my desk."

            Carolina had finished fifteen minutes ago. She had been checking and rechecking her answers ever since, adding a little here or there, erasing a sentence or two and rewriting it. She never relinquished an exam until the last minute; there was always something she could fix. One minute was plenty of time to rewrite her opening sentence.

            "Your time is up," announced Delta just as Carolina added the last bit of punctuation. She stood and carried her exam to the front of the room, beginning the pile directly in the center of Delta's desk. York's paper fell right on top of hers, and she turned to see him offering a watered down version of his usual grin. Almost like he was anxious, which was impossible because he was York. He followed her with his long, loping stride back to her desk, waited patiently for her to gather her belongings, and didn't speak until they made it safely out the door.

            "So. Think you're gonna win a medal?" York asked, grinning naturally again.

            "Maybe," said Carolina absently, shuffling through her notebook as she walked. "Or a trophy." There they were -- her history notes. She had a history exam later today. And biology tomorrow. And she hadn't really talked to her dad in two weeks, though not for lack of trying. She'd left messages every day. ("Dad, it's me. Just checking in. Please call me back. Thanks." Somehow they always ended up sounding like business calls.)  Yesterday he'd finally picked up only to tell her that he was busy, he had to go, and he would call her in the morning.

            Her phone had been silent all day.

            "Hey man, everything okay?" York asked, and Carolina turned to blink at him in the sunlight. When had they gotten outside? She hardly remembered going down the stairs and out the front doors of the estate.

            "Everything's fine," she said automatically. Her dad was most likely fine. Sometimes he stayed up till seven or eight in the morning and then slept till four in the afternoon when he got into one of his obsessive phases. It was probably just something like that. He'd probably call her around five this evening, believing it was morning.

            "Well, I dunno about that," York said, drawling the words a little, his hands shoved in his pockets as he ambled along beside her. "Looks like _someone's_ succumbing to the Midterm Monster."

            "What?" said Carolina, looking and really seeing him this time -- his goofy smile and his raised brows, that little spark that appeared in his eyes when he thought he was being funny. "I'm -- no. I'm not."

            "Nah, man, you totally are. Happens around this time of year. Luckily I happen to know just the thing." York's smile had become suggestive, and she gave him a skeptical look.

            "Oh, you do?"

            "Yeah, man. Have I ever told you about my record collection?" He grinned like a fool when she rolled her eyes.

            "I know this is going to be a shock, but I'm not actually _interested_ in your record collection."

            "Are you sure? Because you  _sound_  interested. How do you feel about The Beatles?"

            Carolina shook her head. "I don't have time for The Beatles."

            York stopped dead and wheeled around to block her path, hand clutching at his heart, face stricken. "You did not just say that."

            "I did," Carolina confirmed. "I have to study for the rest of my midterms, I have to run, I have to--make a phone call, and--"

            "Sometimes," York said, "you should do things because you  _want_  to."

            He hadn't quite interrupted her. It was more like his voice had just sort of slid past hers and into the empty space that her breath occupied. He interrupted without you knowing he was doing it until you realized that you still had half a sentence on your tongue.

            He was looking at her pleadingly now and she noticed for the first time that his hair was all  _fluffy_ today. From running his fingers through it when they were studying in the caf. And his smile -- so certain that she'd go along with him. Part of her wanted to say no purely to prove him wrong.

            "C'mon, Carolina," York said. "We just finished like, the worst midterm ever."

            "I thought it was easy."

            "The worst ever," York confirmed. "Don't you think we should celebrate by doing something fun? Specifically by listening to a couple of songs by the greatest rockband ever to exist, played on a legitimate-actual record player?"

            Carolina frowned, and decided not to point out to him that 'legitimate-actual' was not _actually_ a legitimate phrase. "Why do you want me to listen to The Beatles so badly?"

            York shrugged, smiling. "Nothing like classic rock to kill a Midterm Monster. C'mon," he repeated. "Just a couple songs." His expression was so earnest that she had trouble looking at him straight on.

            Just a couple songs. Two songs. A song was about three minutes. So six minutes. Plus the five to get to the dorms, and about five to get from his room to hers. Add an extra five minutes for York to babble into and that was twenty-one minutes.

             She could spare twenty-one minutes. Twenty-one minutes to get that dumb pleading look off his face.

            "Okay," Carolina sighed, to both of their surprise. York's face broke out in such a ridiculous grin that she held up a hand to shield herself from it. "But I can't stay long."

            "Neither can I," York said happily, and began to bound forward in such a swift, long-legged walk that Carolina almost had to trot to catch up.

            "Slow down," she ordered, and he obeyed, casting a wide-eyed glance her way.

            " _But we don't have much time_ ," he said urgently, like something out of  _Alien Punchers._ (Carolina had skimmed one of Connie's novels. Once. Just to see what it was about.) "Midterm Monsters are highly volatile. It could attack at any moment."

            "Oh, shut up."

*

            York's room was laid out almost exactly like her own, except that in her room there was a clear dividing line between Carolina's side and Connie's. North and York's possessions blended into each other so that you couldn't quite tell what belonged to whom. Carolina recognized a t-shirt that York had been wearing the other day sitting folded on North's bed. At least she assumed it was North's; it was neatly made, sheets tucked in and everything. York's books were sitting in messy piles on his own unmade bed. A rickety shelf full of comics stood along one wall, and a small stack of video games sat atop an old television that faced the couch. On the walls there were various band posters -- the same Beatles one she'd gotten from the bookstore -- and oh, the superheroes. Superheroes _everywhere_. North's side in particular was covered in Captain America posters and comic book covers.

            Then there was the guinea pig.

            "We're not allowed to have pets," Carolina said, stepping closer to peer into the cage on North's desk. The guinea pig glared back. It was weirdly furry around the face. Sort of like it had a moustache. And the expression -- she had never seen a rodent  _glare_  like that.

            "Yeah, but that's just Wyoming," York said, waving a hand. "He doesn't count."

            Carolina looked dubiously at Wyoming, who made a series of quiet grumblings in her direction and then shoved his face in his food dish. "I think he's angry."

            "He's kind of a jerk," York said cheerfully. He turned toward the closet and began rummaging around the university-provided shelves, disappearing for a moment behind a couple of coats and emerging with a colorful armload of record jackets that he marched over to her.

            "Here, pick one," he told her, and she eyed the pile before drawing out a dark blue one with a photo of all four Beatles on the cover, looking like a perfect mixture of gravity and mischief in their suits.  _CAN'T BUY ME LOVE_  was printed across the top in faded gray letters.

            "That's my favorite." York was grinning at her -- wasn't he _always_  grinning at her? -- and their eyes met for a moment before he dropped the rest of the records on the bed and began to set up the small, vaguely modern-looking record player on his bedside table.

            "These were your dad's?" Carolina asked, because something in the room had shifted and she felt like she needed to talk to get it back on track.

            "Yeah," said York. "He gave 'em to me in high school -- there." She watched as the record spun slowly, and then he flipped some kind of switch or maybe pushed a button or something -- she had no idea how record players worked -- and suddenly Paul McCartney's voice blasted into the room.

             _Can't buy me love, oh, love, oh_

            She'd heard this song somewhere -- maybe in a movie or something, maybe when she was a kid and her mom liked to listen to their old boombox during her workouts. The sound quality was crackly, roughened by age maybe, but the energy of it was the same. Only this time it was loud enough to burst her eardrums.

            "IT'S REALLY LOUD," Carolina shouted. Did he always play his music this loud? How did he not get in trouble?

             _I'll buy you a diamond ring my friend, if it makes you feel all right..._

            "I KNOW," York shouted back, laughing. He started moving his hips and then the rest of him to the music in such a brazen display of dorkiness that Carolina could not quite believe he was real.

             _I'll get you anything, my friend, if it makes you feel all right..._

            He was beaming, sing-shouting the words, and she laughed at him. Then he held out his hand and it was so easy, so obvious to take it.

             _'cause I don't care too much for money; money can't buy me love_

            York twirled her and she turned and twirled him right back so he had to duck to get under her arm, nearly tripping off his feet, and he was laughing and still yelling along with the lyrics and she could hardly even hear him so she just kept moving. It made a weird sort of  _sense_  to keep moving, like this was a totally natural thing to be doing on a Monday afternoon. Except the only time she remembered ever dancing like this was maybe once or twice by herself, when she was younger and her father wasn't home and a good song on the radio had caught her by surprise.

            ... _I may not have a lot to give, but what I've got I'll give to you..._

            York took her other hand, or maybe she took his. They weren't even dancing anymore, not really; they were just sort of jumping and spinning like fools while York shouted breathless lyrics and she tried not to laugh so that she could breathe.

             _Can't buy me love, oh, everybody tells me so..._

         He wheeled in closer to her all of a sudden, slowing down along with the music, his breath coming quick. She could see how that permanent-fixture-of-a-grin crinkled at the corners, and how his eyes got darker blue toward the outer edges and lighter in the middle, how he was looking at her like he couldn't quite believe she was real either. 

             _Can't buy me love, oh, ohhh..._

            The song crackled to a finish and Carolina stepped back, cheeks flushed, trying not to pant.

            "Did I ever tell you," York said hoarsely, bracing himself against the wall, "that this one's my favorite?"

            "Yeah," Carolina said, "I noticed." She closed her eyes for a moment so she'd stop looking at his. Slowly the world built itself back up beneath her -- the world of history exams and fathers who needed calling -- and when she opened her eyes she felt the smile dropping from her face. "I should go," she said.

            York frowned like he was about to argue, and then the door flew open and they both turned around to see North and South standing frozen in the doorway.

            "Hey," said South. "You guys have a good study session?" Her voice was unpleasantly sweet.

            "South," North said warningly, but he was still looking at York and Carolina like he'd walked in on something illicit.

            Carolina realized abruptly what they were seeing. Her hair was a wild mess just barely contained by the ponytail holder, her shirt was tugged to one side, and her button-down was partly undone. York was similarly disheveled. It looked...well, it looked bad.

            "I should go," she repeated to York, muttering it this time. She redid her ponytail swiftly, straightened her shirt, and grabbed her stuff, ignoring the flabbergasted expression North was giving the both of them.

            "Whoa, okay, no. It was just a dance party," York hastily told the room at large, and South rolled her eyes. "Seriously, man. We were just dancing."

            "I believe you," said North staunchly, and South rolled her eyes at him too.

            Carolina pushed past the twins and paused to look at York. "See you later," she told him.

            "See you," York said, and she was out the door before she could get distracted by the new nervousness in his smile.

*

            "How long has  _that_  been happening?" South asked, without giving the impression that she particularly cared about the answer. She flopped onto North's bed and dug her headphones from her pocket, curling around her iPod in a possessive sort of way. Like a dragon protecting an egg, York thought. …Wait, no. He had to stop playing that one dragon video game Maine had gotten him into.

            "Dancing?" said York innocently, refusing to take her bait. "Just since today. Maybe we'll make it a thing though. Monday afternoon dance parties, everybody's invited, refreshments available for a donation of one dollar. Proceeds go toward Wyoming's food fund." He looked to North for support, but North was already shaking his head.

            "You're so  _weird,_ " South said before North could manage any admonitions of his own. "I don't know why she likes you."

            "I'm also incredibly good looking," York offered, and South rolled her eyes in a particularly contemptuous way while North just frowned and set his backpack on the floor with the unmistakable  _thud_  of at least three ginormous history textbooks.

            "How's history treating you?" York said conversationally, because North had that look about him. The big brother look -- the one that meant he was going to try to bestow some careful advice, probably about Carolina, which York totally didn't need and would just trample all over anyway.

            "Badly," North said, distracted. (Score one for York, famed refuser of advice.) He rubbed at his forehead in a wounded sort of way. "I think I'm in an abusive relationship with the Cold War."

            "Which you could end at any time," South said lightly from the bed.

            "I told you," North said. "I'm not quitting."       

            "And I told _you_ ," South retorted, "that taking six classes was an idiotic idea." She put her earbuds in before anyone could argue with her, and soon York could hear the familiar, tinny sound of far-away punk rock. She’d been coming here more and more often to listen to her music, complaining that her roommate, Tex, was “a stupid bitch.” She never elaborated further.

               "It kind of was," North admitted to no one in particular. He sank down in his desk chair and opened his laptop.

               "You seem stressed," York said, leaning casually back against his bed. "You know what's good for stress? _Parties._ Parties are great for stress. Specifically Halloween par--"

               " _No parties,_ " North said, turning in his chair abruptly. "We have a party policy. You agreed. You signed your name." He reached for something on his desk shelf and then brandished it at York -- a laminated, legal-looking document with York's messy scrawl of a signature at the bottom. And also an inexplicable border of Captain America shields. North had taken Intro to Graphic Design that semester.

            "I'm pretty sure I was hungover when I signed that," York said.

            "I'm  _serious,_  York. Last time South bit a guy."

               "That hipster dude with the mohawk?" asked South loudly, rolling toward them with her earbuds still in. "He totally deserved it. Tasted gross though."

               North tapped his foot in aimless agitation. "He had to get  _stitches_."

            "Deserved it," South repeated firmly. "He called the Angry Metal Penguins 'mainstream.' Totally notokay."

               "Completely unforgivable," York said, nodding solemnly. She chucked a pillow at his head, as was her tradition, and he allowed it to bounce off his face.

               "No. Parties." North repeated, in case nobody had gotten it the first time, and returned to his laptop, opening up a blank word document and letting his hands careen over the keyboard with all the care of a drunken pianist.

               "Okay," said York. "What about ghost hunts?"

               "What?" North's hands dropped to rest on the desk again as he turned to look at York, realization dawning slowly. "Wait. If this is what I think it is --"

               "Are you thinking of what could potentially be the most incredible ghost hunt ever to grace the humble lands of Our Fair Freelance?" York asked, raising his eyebrows innocently. "Because that's what I'm thinking of."

            "Charon Hall isn't _haunted_ , York," North said. "It's just a story they make up for the freshmen tour. You were supposed to get mildly creeped out. You weren't supposed to actually _believe_ it."

            "We won't know if it's real until we look," York argued.

            "You said that last year. We went. Nothing happened."

            "We didn't go inside."

            "Because that would be breaking and entering."

               "Not _really_ , at least not really the _breaking_ part--"

               North held up a hand. "Please. No. Stop."

               "South wants to go," York said stubbornly.

               "What?" said South, who seemed to be able to magically locate her name through any amount of crashing, snarling noise from her headphones.

               "You wanna break into Charon Hall?" York asked.

               She bared her teeth in a grin. "Um, obviously."

               York looked back at North and raised his eyebrows. "See?"

               "All I see is proof that you two wouldn't last a day without me," North said brusquely, and started typing again.

               "Aw man," said York. "You're no fun." He climbed up onto his bed and stretched out on his back in the space not taken up by records or books. A flicker of red caught his eye out the window and he turned his face to watch the leaves fall past their room. He thought about how warm Carolina's hands had been, how easily she'd matched him.

               "No fun at all," he said quietly, his mind drifting along with the leaves.  

*

               Carolina took out her cell phone as soon as she was sure the dorm was empty, hitting the speed dial and pressing it to her ear.  Her father answered on the fourth ring.

               "Carolina...?"

               He sounded like he'd forgotten her, like she had appeared out from some shadowy corner instead of from the caller ID on his phone.

               She paced slowly around the room. "How are you, Dad?"

               "Carolina," he repeated, more certain this time. "I'm...losing her..."

               Carolina's steps paused and she closed her eyes for a moment, swallowing a frustrated sigh. He had been losing her mother for thirteen years.

               "Have you eaten today?" she asked, when she felt calm again.

               "Soup," her father replied, and there was a small clink like spoon-to-ceramic. Or maybe metal. Carolina had been sure to stock the cabinets with rows and rows of canned soups before she'd left for school. Soup was easy. You didn't have to worry about it going bad and it didn't require a lot of prep work, which was good because her father often got frustrated within about five minutes of cooking for himself. He subsisted largely on meals that were frozen or canned.

               Her childhood had been fortified with canned soups, lunchables, and DiGiorno's, until he got sick again when she was eleven and stopped stocking the shelves. Then she'd had to walk the mile or so to the supermarket with his credit card and her limited knowledge of what exactly a family was supposed to eat.

               "Carolina, I'm _losing_ her..." he repeated now, and she could picture the near-panicked look that he'd be giving her if they weren't separated by distance. She could see him standing at the kitchen counter in yesterday's t-shirt and jeans, unshaven, hair a wild mess. He'd be leaning over his soup like it'd run away from him if he didn't watch it. Possibly eating it cold from the can. And the photograph of her mother would smile down upon his ragged form while he remembered again and again the ways in which she'd broken him.

               "Losing her," he mumbled. "I'm losing her again." His tone was already growing defeated. He knew it was not a solvable problem, and also that he would continue to try to solve it.

               Carolina breathed slowly, willing her heart rate down, because she could not be angry with him now for all the things he could not fix. This could get bad, or it could go away, but there was no way of knowing yet. She would have to watch him.

               "Dad," she said cautiously, "do you want me to come home?"

               A pause. And then, "You'll be home for Thanksgiving."

               "You remember that?" she asked, before she could stop herself.

               "Yes," mumbled her father. "Yes, I remember now."

               Carolina frowned. Thanksgiving was still over a month away. "Did you eat anything else today?" she asked.

               "Cereal. Peanut butter," her father said absently. "Your mother loves Thanksgiving."

               Carolina could not help the flinch that followed this, nor the lurch of surprise in her stomach. He had used present tense.

                "I know," she said, after a pause. "Are you going to call me next week?"

               "Next week," repeated her father. "Yes."

               "Okay. I--"

               The dial tone rang sudden and low in her ear, and Carolina let her hand drop down with the phone still clutched tight.

               _Your mother._ It had been a while since he'd called her that. At least he hadn't called her Allison. _Your mother_ meant he remembered that she had belonged to both of them.

               Carolina took a steadying breath. Then she went to her dresser to get her running clothes.

*

               North had been hoping for a quiet dinner, after all the time he'd spent hammering Cold War facts into his brain and then out through his laptop keyboard. (Taking six classes _had_ been a horrible idea, but two of his classes were only offered in the fall and he had really wanted to take them both _now_ , for reasons which he could no longer fully recall.) The full group had arrived at their usual table, save for Carolina (who was usually late anyway due to her jogging schedule), and they were eating contentedly, the conversation low and calm. It would have been nice to end the day with an amiable meal. But York had other ideas. You could always count on York to have other ideas.

               "Did you know," said York, looking around the cafeteria table, "that Halloween is in two weeks?"

               North resisted the urge to bring his palm to his face. Instead he just frowned deeply across the table at York.

               "I _never_ would have guessed," said South, holding up a forkful of pumpkin-seed-encrusted chicken. As Halloween approached the cafeteria had inexplicably begun putting pumpkin seeds in everything. Including things that really, really did not need pumpkin seeds. Like grilled cheese. Or chili.

               "It is," said York. "It's Halloween in two weeks. And since someone decided we're no longer allowed to have parties--"

               "For which the world will thank me," North said, looking up from his pumpkin seed stir-fry. He caught a puzzled look from Wash for that one.

               "--I was thinking maybe we should do a ghost hunt."

               "Where?" said Connie, perking up.

               "Charon Hall," South answered.

               "Isn't that just a historical building?" Wash asked. "Like, for show?"

               "Nah, really it's closed up because some girl died there or something in like 1902 and somebody made up a story about how now she haunts the hall forever so nobody can live there. Or whatever." South took another bite of pumpkin chicken.

               "Oh," said Wash, eyes widening slightly. "No. We shouldn't go there."

               York waved a hand at him. "No, man, we definitely should. Listen--"

               "Don't," said North. "Don't listen. Look, basically York wants to explore a decaying hundred-year-old building on the edge of campus. Because it's Halloween. If that sounds at all sane to you, by all means, participate. For those of us who don't want to be kicked out of Freelance..."

               "I want to go," Connie said.

               Everyone's eyes shifted to her.

               "Ghosts are real," she said simply, shrugging. "I mean, this one might not be, but you never know."

               This appeared to worry Wash. But then, most things did.

               "That's three," announced York. "Three people. Me, South, and Connie."

               "You, South, and Connie?" Carolina repeated. North jerked a little in his seat; she'd appeared so silently beside the table that he hadn't even noticed her until she was sitting down between him and York. She looked tired, but she sat up straight in her chair, gazing around at all of them like she was daring someone to comment on the shadowed circles under her eyes.

               "Carolina," said York brightly. Interesting how his body language changed when she appeared -- his shoulders relaxed even further and his eyes sparked up. North had seen this look on him before. Just never to this extreme.

                "Okay," said York to Carolina, "so I know you don't believe in ghosts or anything but, y'know, it's gonna be Halloween in two weeks--"

               "Really?" Carolina said dryly. She prodded at the decorative little jack-o-lantern in the middle of the table.

               "Halloween," York repeated, undeterred, "which is the best holiday of every holiday, ever, and North didn't go for the whole party thing this year--"

               " _Last year_ you broke my vintage Captain America action figure in a drunken wrestling match with an entire hipster fraternity," North said sourly. Captain America's broken arm was still tied in a makeshift sling; neither of them could afford to get it fixed.

               York nodded as though this was entirely fair. "Yeah, okay, that _might_ have happened, but at least _I_ didn't bite anybody.”

               South dropped her fork suddenly and threw up her hands. "I _told_ you, he deserved it!”

               “You _bit_ somebody?” Connie said.

               "What was I supposed to do?" South snapped. "I _tried_ kicking him."

               "And so we no longer do parties," North sighed.

               "Understandable," said Carolina. Connie raised her eyebrows slightly from across the table, in what North thought was amusement. It was hard to tell with her. She didn't seem to want you to be able to tell.

               "So," said York, clearly trying to rope everyone back into his mad scheme, "North said no parties. But nobody said no ghost hunts."

               "No ghost hunts," Wash tried. York ignored him.

               " _Think_ about it, guys. This is our chance to explore an old legend. To find out the truth!" he declared, spreading his arms wide.

               Carolina picked at her pasta salad. "Why is everything covered in pumpkin seeds?" she muttered.

               North shook his head sadly. "I have no idea." She glanced at him with a small smile that surprised him in its sincerity. She didn't look tired, he realized. She looked _drained_ , her eyes not just shadowed but bruised. He reminded himself not for the first time that it was not his responsibility to ask if she was doing okay. She didn’t seem to want to be asked.

               "Truth?" repeated Maine back to York, who nodded fervently.

                "Yeah, man."

               "What truth?" Maine rumbled.

               York scratched his head. "Umm, like how she died? Maybe she was murdered!" He sounded, North thought, entirely too thrilled about that possibility.

               "Wait," said Wash. "Wait. Isn't this against some sort of rule?"

               "Nahh," said York, though he wouldn't meet Wash's eyes. "Well. Sorta. A little bit. Not, like, a ton of them, though."

               "It's breaking and entering," cited North, between sips of soda. "And it's illegal."

               "Nahhh," said York again. Wash frowned suspiciously. "...Okay, yeah, but not really. I mean, nobody owns the place, nobody ever goes there, so why would we get in trouble? It's not like we're gonna damage anything; we're just gonna look around."

               "That's what you said about that antique shop," said North. "And then I had to buy a clock." He saw Carolina's mouth quirk in a smile out of the corner of his eye.

               York shook his head. "That was a greatclock, man. I did you a favor."

               "It was seventy-eight dollars. And broken."

               York waved a hand in dismissal. "It was a great clock," he repeated. "Vintage. Really fashionable."

               "Our mom doesn't even like it," said South.

               York moved on. "All I'm saying is that I think we should _consider_ it. The ghost hunt. Because if we don't do this now we're never gonna do it, y'know? This is what college is _for_."

               Carolina gave a small laugh. "I don't think that ghost hunting is primarily what college is for."

               York met her eyes. "No, man, it's for...for things you don't get to do in the real world. It's for adventures, and, yeah, learning stuff, but it's especially for adventures."

               "New experiences," Carolina said, humoring him, and North watched in mild concern as York's expression softened.

               "Yeah," he said. "Exactly." His voice had gone lower, too.

               North and South exchanged a glance. South put a hand to her heart mockingly, and Connie made an odd coughing noise, stifling laughter. Neither York nor Carolina seemed to notice.

               "All right," said North, "enough about ghosts for tonight."

               York shrugged, eyes shifting from Carolina with obvious difficulty. "Sure, man. We'll talk more tomorrow."

               North didn't bother arguing with that one, and soon enough the conversation gravitated onward. Maine had brought out some blueprints he'd made for class and was passing them around the table.

               "Sweet," said South, "you put in a music room." She was impressed. This was rare.

               Maine nodded at her, looking pleased.

               "You're really good at this stuff," York said appreciatively. "Did you guys see the coffee bar?"

               He began to discuss latte flavors in earnest ("What d'you mean you've never had pumpkin spice, man? You _gotta_ try pumpkin spice. It's gonna be Halloween in two weeks!") with the rest of the table, and North smiled to himself. Coffee was okay. Coffee was a normal topic. Maybe he'd have his quiet dinner after all.

*

               Later that night Wash worried his hair in front of the bathroom mirror, trying to decide if it was the good kind of messy or the bad kind of messy. He'd arranged to meet Connie in front of the building at eight o'clock to walk to the movie theater, since neither of them had a car and it was only a fifteen minute walk anyway.

               "Do I look okay?" he asked Maine, ducking out of the bathroom and pulling at the sleeves of his Freemont Lancel sweatshirt. It was the newest thing he owned. His dad had bought it for him on Accepted Students Day.

               Maine paused his video game. He looked Wash up and down, then nodded.  "You’re good."

               "Thanks," said Wash, nodding back. He pushed his wallet into his jeans pocket and his phone into the sweatshirt pocket, feeling like he was gearing up for some kind of mission.

               "I'll, um, be back later," he told Maine. "I don't know how late it goes..." This concerned him. He tried to put it out of his mind.

               "Have fun," said Maine, and from anyone else the near-toneless phrase would have seemed sarcastic. But Maine was looking at him very seriously, so Wash nodded again and gave a weak smile before walking out the door, heart thumping in his chest.

*

               Main Street was one of those streets that became somehow more welcoming at night, rather than forbidding.  Streetlamps arched over the sidewalks, and Connie and Wash walked slowly in and out of their soft illumination. She knew he was nervous, and she felt she should be too, but instead all she felt was a growing thrill in her stomach. This had everything to do with the fact that it was _Alien Punchers 2_ , and nothing ever quite equaled her excitement for Alien Punchers -- but it also had a lot to do with Wash. And how he kept reaching up to muss his hair self-consciously, and how she wanted to reach up and run her fingers through it.

               "Are you going to go with York?" she asked as they made their way toward the lit-up little movie theater. There was already a line forming, but Connie wasn't worried about waiting.

               "Go with York?" Wash repeated, flashing her a puzzled look.

               His eyebrows were furrowed. He had such nice eyebrows. "To Charon Hall," she elaborated.

               "Oh," said Wash. "I...I don't know, it sounds kind of like it's not...really allowed?"

               Connie shrugged. "We could find something, though. Or...someone."

               Wash shook his head, eyes wide. "That would be horrible."

               She smiled. "I think it would be cool."

               He smiled back a little sheepishly. "Maybe," he conceded. Then, "I -- I think we're here."

               They had nearly bumped into the middle of the line. People were wearing all kinds of costumes -- hats with alien tendrils attached, plainclothes approximations of Roberta Riot's last uniform, even cardboard space helmets and armor.

               "Wow," said Wash faintly, looking blindsided.

               Connie smiled. "Come on," she said, and took him by the wrist.

               Which really didn't _seem_ like a big deal -- until she felt his quickened pulse beneath her fingertips, and her heart gave a nervous shudder, and she almost let go. "Let's find a spot before the line goes around the building," she said. Practical. Measured. Not a single quiver in her voice.

               "Okay," said Wash, his voice suddenly very soft, and they made their way to the back of the line.

*

               They had only waited a half hour in line, which Wash figured wasn't so bad. They'd even found good seats, right in a middle row that did not contain any costumed people (who made Wash slightly nervous but seemed to delight Connie). The theater darkened and the cheering went up, and he watched surreptitiously as Connie's face opened to a pure kind of happiness that he had never seen in her before.

               Even long after she'd let go, even as the movie wrapped him up in a plot of soldiers and aliens that he didn't quite understand -- even then he could still feel her fingertips pressed gently against his skin, her thumb in the crook of his wrist.

*

               It felt unexpectedly strange, going to bed without Connie here. Usually Carolina was the one who was out late, running or studying in the library. She would return to a room that was silent except for the sound of her roommate's breathing, and every step she took was a self-conscious, measured effort at sound reduction. Even climbing into bed now she tried to be quiet, as though the room itself would be disturbed by her presence.

               A light rain began slowly to patter against the window and she stayed still for a moment, listening. It rained here a lot. More than home. But she was grateful for the steady noise of it; it felt like permission to make her own noise, curling over to face the wall and gathering her blankets tight around her. She never did that when Connie was here. It felt too childish.

               Childish, like dancing around to music at full blast with a boy who made her laugh when she barely felt like she knew how.

               York liked her. She knew that. She just didn't know why.

               And she didn't know if he should.

               Carolina buried her head in her blankets, trying to let the rain drown her thoughts. It didn't have to matter now, she told herself. It could matter tomorrow.

               Maybe she should call her dad tomorrow.

               At this thought she gave a short sigh and sat up, sliding out of bed and padding across in the dark to find her biology textbook. She would study herself to sleep. It had worked before. She carried the thick book to her bed, switched her reading lamp on, and began to read about DNA structure.

*

               Connie came rushing up the stairs toward her room, flushed with the particular type of wild energy that came from seeing an exhilarating action movie. It was exacerbated by the fact that Wash had _totally_ just gotten hooked on Alien Punchers. The whole way back she'd hardly noticed the light rain as he asked her question after question about the series. She found herself explaining the entire plot (conspiracy fan theories and all), telling him exactly why Tyrana Wreck was the best character, and then promising to lend him the entire series thus far. They'd finally parted ways with an awkward pause during which Connie again felt sorely tempted to run her fingers through his crazily sticking up hair, and now she was almost at the door to her room.

               She opened it slowly, willing herself to calm down, and blinked at the small light still on in the corner by Carolina's bed.

               It occurred to Connie that she had probably never actually seen Carolina sleep before. Usually she was gone when Connie went to bed and out the door before Connie woke up. Now she was curled up like a little kid, face pressed against an opened textbook, blankets only covering her halfway.

               She was always so tense. Even in sleep, she gripped tight to her blankets like they'd leave her if she wasn't careful to hold them there.

               Connie shook her head and gathered her pajamas, ducking quietly into the bathroom to change. Whatever Carolina's story was, Connie wasn't sure she needed to know it.

               She brushed her teeth and hardly saw her own reflection, residual spaceships careening through her brain. Tyrana Wreck's final line still rang in her ears, cliché and cheesy but clearer than her own thoughts:

               _I'm not just fighting for myself anymore. I'm fighting for my friends._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being so patient while this chapter was written and rewritten and rewritten again! If you want to hear the song York played Carolina, [click here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RHuTibaSbyU) and crank up the volume. ;)


	6. Charon Hall: Part I

            Wash could not exactly recall how York had ended up on the floor of his room on the night before Halloween. Something to do with video games -- Maine had gotten them all into this thing about dragons, and York was _awful_ at it but he'd insisted on playing for a full hour and a half before he finally relinquished the controller to Maine again. North had hung around earlier too, but left halfway through York's dragonfest with a heavy sigh of, "Essays..."

            North was always writing essays. He said it was a history major thing, but York said it was a North thing.

            "He just always picks the essay-heavy classes," York had explained, eyes glued to the television screen, hands furiously pressing buttons on the controller at random. "I dunno, man. Guy's got terrible taste."

            North had rolled his eyes, looking strikingly similar to South for about a half a second. "And what does that say about choosing _you_ for a friend?"

            York grinned. "That you got lucky." North snorted and watched briefly as York's character got eaten by a two-headed dragon. Then he shook his head and headed for the door.

            "See you guys," he said, raising a hand in farewell.

            "NightNorth," York called after him, all one word. He received a tired, "Night, York," before the door closed.

            And now Maine was playing _Helio_ while Wash sat on his bed with a physics textbook and York settled on the floor atop a couple extra blankets and pillows. He watched Maine play with rapt attention, giving occasional commentary that Wash mostly tuned out. 

            "Hey, Wash," York said during a lull in the gameplay, and Wash glanced down at him. He was on his back, turning one of Wash's model rockets over and over in his hands. He was always picking them up. It had ceased to bother Wash, somehow. You couldn't really ever get too mad at York.

            "Yeah?" replied Wash.

            York's eyes flicked upward at him."So how come you like rockets so much?"

            "Because they're _amazing_ ," blurted Wash before he could think better of it. "They-- they allow humans to explore the outer reaches of the universe, to see stuff literally _no one_ has ever seen, and -- don't laugh at me."

            Because York was sitting up and smiling now, eyes sparking with humor. "I'm not laughing, man," he said hastily. "It's just cool. Hearin' you talk about it."

            Wash flushed. "They're feats of engineering," he mumbled. "Why _wouldn't_ I like them?"

            York nodded, easing back down again to stare up at the ceiling. "So are you gonna build them? Like a real rocket scientist?"

            "Yeah," said Wash, then looked down at his textbook. "I mean. Someday. Hopefully."

            "That's cool, man," said York. He yawned widely, then closed eyes. "That's really cool. I mean it." His grip loosened on the model rocket so that it toppled beside him.

            "Thanks," Wash said quietly. He focused back on his book.

            It wasn't until an hour later when Maine got up to turn off the Xbox that Wash realized York had fallen asleep.

            "Um," he said, glancing at his bedside clock. It was a little past ten. "...York?"

            York didn't stir. He was sprawled out across his blankets, mouth slightly open, arm around a pillow.

            "Yo- _o_ -ork," Wash tried. He climbed out of bed and prodded York in the shoulder.

            No response.

            Shaking his shoulders didn't work either. Or poking him in the ribs.

            Wash looked at Maine, who shrugged.

            "Tell North," he suggested. So Wash grabbed his phone from the bedside table and tapped out a quick text.

**_hey, jsyk your roommate is asleep on our floor._ **

            The phone lit up almost immediately with a response.

            **_course he is._** **_want me to come get him?_**

            "Do we want North to come get him?" Wash asked Maine, who shrugged again.

            They both watched as York rolled over in his sleep, then curled comfortably around the pillow.

            "York," Wash tried again, halfheartedly. "Wake up."

            "...'nother cup o'coffee," York mumbled into the pillow, eyes still shut tight.

            Wash and Maine exchanged a glance.

            "Maybe we should just leave him there," Wash said. Maine nodded. Wash typed a response to North on his phone.

**_It's ok. he can stay._ **

            North's reply came a few seconds later.

            **_k, just don't forget to feed & walk him in the morning. see you guys tomorrow._**

            Wash got out of bed carefully, stepping over York's legs to make his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He paused to bend down and retrieve the model rocket, inspecting it for scratches before setting it on the shelf again.

            "Latte," slurred York in his sleep again. "No...cappu...cappuci..."

            "You have a serious caffeine problem," Wash told him. York held tighter to his pillow and mumbled, "Double shot."

*

            The knocking at the door -- hard, quick, angry -- was as much South as the tone of her voice or the pink streaks in her hair. North lifted himself from his desk on stiffened legs and dragged the door open. South stood there scowling at him with a pillow clutched to her chest and one earbud in, the other trailing against her skull-and-crossbones pajama pants.

            "Can't sleep?" said North, stepping aside to let her in.

            "Sick of my roommate." South tossed the pillow onto York's bed and climbed up on it. "Where's he?" she asked.

            "Fell asleep at Wash and Maine's," North said, smiling a little.

            South snorted. "I bet he got himself all worked up about the ghost thing and passed out from the excitement."

            "A definite possibility. What's your roommate doing?"

            " _Tex._ " South spat the name and fluffed her pillow aggressively. "She doesn't _do_ anything, she's just a bitch. Always giving me fuckin' orders."

            "Orders?" North repeated, sinking back into his chair.

            "Like, 'Turn out the light,' or 'Leave the door open' or whatever. It's not like she asks me, she just fuckin' _orders_ me to do it like she's the goddamn sovereign ruler."

            North raised his eyebrows. "You haven't beaten her up yet?"

            He caught the flicker of embarrassment in her eyes before she could hide it. "She's a monster," South muttered. "I'd be stupid to try."

            If anyone else had asked her, she'd probably have told them that she'd already beaten the roommate to a pulp.

            "Maybe a night off will help," North said lightly, and South shrugged.

            "Whatever. Just couldn't take her shit anymore. Are you writing another essay?"

            North glanced back at his laptop. "Yeah."

            South narrowed her eyes. "When's it due?"

            "Monday."

            "It's Thursday. Go to bed."

            "South--"

            " _Christ_ , North, I think you'll survive a _single night_ without an essay to keep you company," South snapped, rolling over in York's bed to face the wall. "It's past midnight. Give it up already."

            North looked from his computer screen to her hunched shoulders, visible beneath York's blankets. "I...guess it could wait."

            "Of course it can wait. Don't be stupid," came South's muffled voice.

            "All right, all right, jeez," North said. He stood and closed his laptop.

            "You're not the only one with a lecture mode," South muttered.

            "And Tex isn't the only one giving orders," North replied. South huffed and didn't respond.  By the time North climbed into bed, her breathing had already gone slow and even.

*

*

            The sky was clear and struck with stars, and Carolina was flying. Her feet sprang easily from the soft grass around the football field as she ran her usual morning route, breath puffing out in pale clouds in the lingering cold. The sun might've stopped rising at five thirty, but Carolina was sticking to her schedule.  There were enough streetlamps that she didn't really need the sunlight, and she knew this route by heart now anyway. It hadn't taken long to learn every dip and curve in the ground below her.

            She was almost to the end of her run when she saw the other girl. Dressed all in black and barely visible from a distance, she ran parallel to Carolina but in the opposite direction, head down and focused like she'd mapped her own routes out too. Her brown hair was cropped short and she ran like she was barreling through an obstacle course, sneakers hitting the ground a little harder than they should've. Carolina had to swerve to avoid her once she got closer. The girl gave her a brief nod and a flash of narrowed eyes, then ran on.

            _Competition_ , Carolina thought.

            She ran past her usual stopping point. She'd do another mile today.

*

            Connie woke up to the crash of several large textbooks hitting the tile floor -- which, at seven in the morning, sounded a lot like a possible alien attack. She got her punching fist ready, flailing a little in her half-asleep state, and then squinted to see Carolina bending down amidst four or five fallen books.

            "Sorry," Carolina said quietly, stacking the books one by one back onto her desk. "I...tripped."

            Connie paused to assess the situation, confirmed that there were in fact no aliens, and moved forward. "Oh. Are you okay?"

            "Yes," said Carolina. She was bracing herself against her bed now, back to the mattress. Like maybe her legs were tired.

            You never got a 'yeah' from her. Always that very precise 'yes.'  It was too early in the morning for precision, Connie decided.

             "Okay," she said to Carolina, and then dragged her covers up over her head so she didn't have to see the slow pouring in of sunlight from the window. The sun wasn't the boss of her. She didn't have to get up yet.

            "Are you going later?" Carolina asked, apparently not understanding that blanket-over-head meant _do not talk to me._

            "To what?"

            "To Charon Hall."

            "Of course I am," Connie said, pulling down the blanket to give Carolina an incredulous look. "Aren't you?"

            Ever since York had suggested it, Connie had been researching the place. So far it seemed that there wasn't much out there that York hadn't already told them -- a girl had died there, and then no one bothered trying to live there anymore. Fairly cut and dry.  The final research, and possibly the most accurate, would be to simply go to the place. Going there on Halloween was not the necessity for Connie that it was for York. It was just a bonus.

            "Maybe," said Carolina, "I don't know."

            "Are you scared of ghosts?" Connie asked, because sleep deprivation made her reckless. Besides, she had been wondering ever since Carolina had bailed on their first study group.

            Carolina gave her a sharp look. "No."

            "Neither am I."

            They held each other's gaze for a moment, and Connie felt like some modicum of understanding passed between them then. Some mutual fearlessness of ghosts.

            "Good," said Carolina, and she strode swiftly into the shower like there might be a very important meeting happening in there shortly.

            "Great," Connie mumbled to herself, then pulled the covers up again. The sun felt warm on the top of her head. "You're not the boss of me," she muttered at it, and drifted back toward sleep.

*

            York had been awake since six in the morning. Wash knew this, because the minute York woke up he _wouldn't stop talking_.

            "Today's the day, man," he said excitedly to Wash for the tenth time. "Charon Hall, man! Ghost hunting! Are you ready?"

            "So ready," Wash said flatly.

            York bounded over to Wash's closet, grabbing a random shirt and holding it up for inspection. "Great!" he said.

            " _Not_ great," Wash answered. "I was being sarcastic."

            "I know," grinned York. "I still think it's great. Hey, can I borrow this shirt?"

            It was a plain gray and yellow t-shirt. Wash felt strongly possessive of it all of a sudden. "No," he snapped. "You're wearing a shirt."

            "Yeah but it's like a pajama shirt, man."

            "You live like two seconds away. Go get your own shirt."

            For some reason this just made York look even happier. "Look at you, standin' up for yourself. That's great, man." He tossed the shirt at Wash, who caught it easily and gave York a baffled look.

            "Why did we let you stay here?" he wondered aloud to himself. Maine was not there to mitigate Wash's worries with his calm demeanor -- he had left early that morning for football practice.

            "'Cause we're friends," said York, seeming a little surprised by the question. "Friends let friends sleep on friends' floors." He bounced a little on the balls of his feet to punctuate this.

            "How are you like this before you've even had coffee? Why do you drink coffee at all?" Wash said, staring at him suspiciously.

            "North says it counteracts my natural imbalance and makes me normal-crazy instead of crazy-crazy," York said. "North is like, a scientist or something, I dunno."

            "North is a history major."

            "And a scientist. An amateur scientist. He learned from the comics, there're lots of scientists in comics. They're always experimenting on the superheroes and takin' over the world and stuff. It's a scientist thing. North doesn't do that though, since he's only an amateur."

            Wash frowned. "Let's...go get you some coffee."

            "Sure, man," York said brightly. "Can I borrow your shirt?"

            "No. Let's go get you a shirt. And then some coffee."

            York nodded happily enough and they headed out the door. Wash had gotten dressed a half hour ago when the case against sleep had proved truly hopeless.

            "So you're really gonna come, right?" York said, suddenly serious.

            Wash eyed him. "I guess..."

            "I mean, you _gotta_ come," York decided, throwing open the door to the stairs. "How else are you gonna impress Connie?"

            "How -- what?" Wash said as he caught the door.

            York paused in his tromping down the stairs to give Wash a knowing look. "Come on, man, it's pretty obvious."

            " _What's_ obvious?"

            York laughed and took the next two steps in one leap of a stride. "You and Connie. You're a Thing."

            Wash had never really understood what spluttering meant until this moment. "We're -- well -- we -- Wh-what about you and Carolina?" he managed, following York onto the third floor landing. 

            York's next step faltered just enough to be noticeable. "What about us?"

            " _You're_ a Thing," Wash accused.

            A strange look crossed York's face, his eyebrows rising and mouth twisting in an almost-smile. "Nah," he said. "Nah, we're friends. Hey, you wanna come in or wait out here?" They had arrived at York's door, and he was already swiping the card through and turning the handle.

            "Why the fuck are _you_ awake?" came a growl from inside the room. It sounded like South. Maybe York hadn't been the only one swapping rooms last night.

            "I'll, uh, wait out here," Wash said, and York nodded.

            "Probably for the best, man. Be right back."

*

            Carolina slipped out of her room and toward the cafeteria as soon as she was showered and dressed. She wanted to get there first, to have some peace and quiet before everyone else came roaming in, chatting about ghosts and who South wanted to punch today and whatever else. Usually this was a simple task; nobody ever dared to get up quite as early as Carolina.

            So it was somewhat of a surprise when she strode in through the cafeteria doors and found York, North, South, and Wash already at their usual table. York waved a little manically, and Carolina refused to acknowledge this, instead walking calmly to the chair they'd saved her and setting down her bag. It occurred to her that they always saved her the same chair. There was a routine to things now, an agreed upon order of seating. The realization made her feel a little edgy.

            "Hey man!" said York brightly, and Carolina gave him a cool, "Hi, York," in the hopes that speaking in a level tone of voice would encourage him to do the same. He just smiled dorkily at her and took a long sip of his coffee.

            "'Morning," North told her through a yawn, smiling in that generally affable way he had as South gave her a curt nod. Wash just offered a shy, "Hey," and she nodded back,  feeling a vague affection toward his timidness. Wash sort of grew on you that way.

            "I'm starving," South complained, and stomped over toward the omelette station, North following after her with another yawn. Wash mumbled something about toast and disappeared around the corner toward the faint smell of burnt bread.

            York waited till everyone had scattered. "So," he said, his eyes intent on her face. "Are you coming tonight?"

            Carolina didn't look back at him, instead unpacking the water bottle from her bag. "I can think of a lot of things that are more productive than trying to break into a decaying building."    

            "Yeah, okay, but it's a pretty cool place. It's got two floors, right, and these really wide, sorta curved windows--"

            She held a hand up. "York. Stop. It's like you're trying to sell me a vacation home."

            York nodded, looking pleased. "Except the vacation home is full of ghosts! I mean...at least one ghost. Definitely at least one ghost!"

            "That doesn't make it _better_ ," Carolina said, tipping her water bottle to her lips.

            York leaned across the table a little further. "Then what are you gonna do on this fine Halloween night, if you're not comin' with all of us?"

            Her eyes flicked up to his. "I thought it was just you, South, and Connie."

            York smiled. "Yeah, well. Wash'll follow Connie. North'll follow South. And I bet Maine would come just for the architecture. Did I mention the architecture?"

            Carolina sighed. "You might've."

            "So?" York insisted. "What're your Halloween night plans? You must have some pretty cool plans if you're turning down this _amazing opportunity_."

            "Have you considered a career in selling vacation homes?" Carolina said, then added, "I'll be doing homework on Halloween night. Just like any other night."

            York gave her a very pained expression. "Aw, come on. You've got no holiday spirit. Didn't you celebrate as a kid? Go trick-or-treating?"

            Carolina paused. She could remember a few years, very early on. And in elementary school everyone dressed up. But it mostly went by unnoticed at her household as she got older. "A few times," she settled on telling York. "Not very often."

            York's expression grew even more pained. "That's _terrible_ ," he said. "You _have_ to come with us."

            "I'm not sure I'm interested."

            "You don't know that yet."

            Carolina tapped her fingers lightly against the table. "I know I'm not interested in ghosts," she said, fixing him with a stern gaze.

            York smiled guilelessly back at her. "Then come for me," he suggested. Carolina's eyebrows shot up and he backtracked quickly. "Not in a weird way, man! Just, y'know, 'cause I-- I mean, 'cause you're--" He stopped with an uncharacteristic abruptness, the smile dropping from his face.

            Carolina frowned. "I'm what?"

            York turned his head a little bit away from her, and she could've sworn there was a slight pinkness to his cheeks. "You're the only one who ever knows what you're doing," York elaborated. Somehow she had the feeling that that wasn't what he'd meant to say at all.

*

            In the end, after Connie and Maine had joined their table, they all agreed to meet outside the Necessitas dorm building at six pm.

            "Not to go _inside_ Charon Hall," Carolina reiterated for what had to be the eighth time. "Just to --"

            " _Just to look around_ , yeah, we get it," South snapped.

            Carolina shot her a hard stare but didn't bother to respond. It wasn't worth the breath. "I have class," she said instead, addressing York. "I'll see you later." Her arm brushed against his as she walked past, and when he answered, "See you," it came out faint and dreamy.

            "For fuck's sake, York," Carolina heard South mutter behind her. "You really gotta stop being so obvious."

*

            York's Friday classes went by in a blur of ghost-hunting daydreams and occasional reprimands from professors. Which, come on. It was _Halloween_. Didn't they get that there were more important things than whether or not he'd done his homework this week?

            He ducked out of his last class as soon as the professor deemed it acceptable, taking a short cut down to Necessitas. It was five minutes to six, and what if he didn't get there in time and Carolina changed her mind? York shook his head against the unfamiliar worry rattling there, and picked up his pace.

*

            Carolina waited at the edge of the group, listening as South bickered with North and Connie and Wash discussed Alien Punchers in such reverent tones that they might as well have been discussing the deepest secrets of the farthest reaches of the universe. Maine stood blessedly silent beside her, and she was just starting to question whether or not she really needed to be here when York came hurtling toward them from the stairs that went up to the estate.

            "Hey, guys," he said, panting a little as he skidded to a halt. The wind of his own running had tangled his hair this way and that, and Carolina wasn't entirely sure why she found its new arrangement so fascinating. She took her eyes away from it with an effort. "It's just up through the woods," York said, gesturing at the scraggly little pathway that led up from Necessitas through brush and past struggling saplings. "Kinda rough terrain, might wanna bring a knife in case we get lost or attacked by bears..."

            "Bears?" said Wash worriedly from the back.

            "He's joking," said Carolina, shooting York a warning look.

            York grinned. "I might be."

            Wash pulled a face and Connie patted him gently on the arm, which made him pull an entirely different face. Carolina resisted a laugh.

            "Let's _go_ already," South said, sounding disgusted with this entire affair, and she trudged off down the path. York shrugged but let her lead the way, North following reluctantly at her heels.

            "I'm just sayin'," York insisted to the rest of them, "you _might_ wanna be prepared to fight off some--"

            Carolina grabbed him by the arm. York's words stuttered and broke down in his throat, until he was emitting a noise that sounded sort of like "--be-ea-ears?"

            "Come  on," Carolina told him, stepping forward.

            He recovered swiftly enough to respond with a jaunty, "Sure thing, boss," and allowed himself to be dragged up the path.

*

            They charged through the woods with all the grace of a drunken herd of wildebeests. At one point York stopped abruptly, which caused Wash to trip directly into Connie, which caused the both of them to tumble down into a pile of dead twigs and leaves that could have housed venomous groundhogs for all Wash knew. However, he was mildly distracted from this potential danger by the fact that Connie had fallen _on top of him_ , and also by the fact that this caused his face to burn beet red. Connie got up first, extending a hand to help him, and he stood gingerly, brushing the debris from his clothes and trying not to look her directly in the eye.

            "Thanks," he mumbled, and she shrugged off his gratitude with a swift, "No problem." And it really did seem to be no problem to her, that she had just been close enough that she must've felt his heart beating straight through his skin -- no problem, that her hand had briefly pressed against his leg in a way that made him shiver involuntarily.

            No problem, Wash told himself firmly. They marched on.

*

            South was in the middle of accusing York of being lost when they finally arrived at a small clearing.

            "This is it," said York, gesturing grandly toward the shape of a rundown brick building. It was smaller than Carolina had pictured -- too small, she thought, to be called a Hall -- but similar to the estate in its construction. Thick ivy crawled across the two doric columns at the entrance and over the faded brick, reclaiming it all back into the woods that edged around the back corners.

             There were no bold signs proclaiming _Keep Out_ or _Trespassing Forbidden_. No fencing. Nothing except a little plaque near the door that read _Closed to the public._ Not even a capital 'p.' And the ivy had almost covered that up, too.

            "Welcome to Charon Hall," York announced, grinning around at all of them like he'd just welcomed them to the Eiffel Tower or something. Carolina glanced behind her at the group. South had rolled up the sleeves of her hoodie and was toeing the dirt like she was preparing to run into battle. North, beside her, was on his guard, eyeing them all suspiciously like they were a bunch of kids he'd accidentally ended up in charge of.  Connie's hair was a mess, with bits of leaf here and there, but she surveyed the Hall with all the seriousness of an expert historian. Wash stood behind her, his hair an even worse mess and his brows furrowed. And Maine -- dependable Maine -- was calm and steady as ever, standing with his shoulders square and his face unreadable.

            "It's a very nice hall," Carolina told York placatingly. He flashed her a smile.

            "I know, right? They say the girl who died here -- I think her name was Phyllis -- they say she just never felt at home anywhere else so now she just kinda hangs out here for all eternity or--"

            "Are we goin' in or what?" South interrupted, folding her arms and shaking out her hair.

            "I thought we were just looking," Wash said quickly, and Carolina glanced at him. He had gone a little pale. A passing breeze ruffled the leaves behind him and his shoulders jumped.

             "That was _supposed_ to be the plan," Carolina said, looking critically at York, who shrugged and wouldn't meet her eyes.

            "I dunno man, I thought _maybe_ we could go in, just for, y'know, a minute or two..."

            "It's going to get dark soon," North said, and Carolina followed his gaze to the slowly setting sun.

            "Awesome," said South, glaring her approval.                      

            "Ghosts are easier to see in the dark," Connie added.

            South rolled her eyes. "So are morons."

            "That's not true," Wash said helpfully.

            "This wasn't the plan," Carolina said flatly, staring at York until he was forced to look back. He gave her a sheepish grin.

            "I'm better at improvising?" he said.

            "What's the matter?" snapped South, fixing her glare on Carolina. "You scared or something?"

            Carolina's eyes narrowed. "No."

            " _I_ think you're scared," South decided, beginning to pace now in front of Carolina. "Yep. You're scared of ghosts."

            "I'm not _scared_ of anything," Carolina said, anger pooling dark in her stomach and thickening her heartbeat.

            South smiled, baring a few teeth. "Of course you're not. Not _you_. You're too busy being Little Miss Perfect."

            " _South,_ " said North, taking a step forward.

            Carolina felt a swipe of fury in her chest. "You don't even know me," she said, her voice gone low.

            "Look," said South, turning toward York. "If Little Miss Perfect can't handle a ghost hunt, that's fine, but I--hey!"

            Carolina's shoulder slammed against South's as she stomped past her and up the front steps of Charon Hall. She yanked on the door handle but the door didn't budge, and she was about to try kicking it when York strode up at her side.

            "It's locked, man," he said. He was looking at her with a new kind of admiration. And maybe a little bit of worry.

            "Really? Do you think so?" she snapped.

            The corners of his mouth twitched upward, and he waved a hand in front of the door, motioning for her to make room. "Hold on a sec, I'm good at this stuff," he told her, and she stepped reluctantly aside as he knelt down in front of the doorknob, producing a few small, thin metal tools from his pocket.

            "Have you always had those?" Carolina asked as he slid one of the tools into the keyhole, jostling it and tilting his head to listen at the doorframe.

            "Since I was a kid. My uncle gave 'em to me. He was probably a wanted criminal," York said cheerfully. Something clicked and he smiled, pushing lightly against the door. It creaked open, and Carolina had to turn her head away to avoid being assaulted by the risen dust.

            "Door's open," she called back toward the group, fixing a brief stare on South. Then she turned back and walked into the house, head lowered in determination, York following right behind her.

*

            Wash swallowed, watching as York and Carolina disappeared into the building. His arm was still sore from the fall and he felt his bruised pride like a low ache.

            South strode past Wash to follow them, prompting a mumbled "damn it," from North, who went trotting reluctantly after her yet again. Maine looked at Wash, shrugged, and lumbered toward the house.

            Which left Wash and Connie. Which would have been fine except for the fact that Connie was already walking away from him.

            "Wait, wait, you can't just _leave_ me here," Wash said, running to catch up with her. Connie stopped dead at the foot of the stairs, holding out an arm to keep him from crashing into her.

            "Hold on." She pulled up the hood of her sweatshirt until it draped well over her eyes. "There could be cameras," she explained, then climbed up the steps toward the door while Wash looked up, scanning the columns for a hint of a hidden lens.          

            "Why would there be--" There was the creak of wooden floorboards and then Connie was swallowed by the dark and the dust of the house. "Ohmygodwhy," Wash whispered to the world in general. He squared his shoulders and followed Connie into the death trap of a possibly-haunted house that his insane friends were obsessed with exploring because they were insane and maybe also incredibly stupid.

            And he was probably insane and/or incredibly stupid for following them, but. Well. He couldn't just stay out there alone. What if -- ghosts? Or something?

            Wash shuddered, looking warily around the sparsely furnished room, listening to York commenting on every little thing he saw. It was hard to make anyone out in the gray dark of the house, but he felt safe following the back of Connie's hooded head. She was cautious. She wouldn't barge into anywhere without a good reason first.

            Unlike York, who was now picking up a broken lamp and turning it all around while Carolina said something that sounded vaguely scolding. What if it was a cursed lamp or something? What if it had a demon in it? Or was that genies. Was it _only_ genies who got stuck in lamps? What about demons? Wash could've sworn he'd read some story about a demon being stuck in a lamp. And if it was a demon and York was shaking it all around then it'd be _really_ pissed off and --

            Wash took a deep breath. Of dust. Then he started coughing like he'd just acquired a bad case of tuberculosis, and Connie wandered over.

            "You okay?" she asked, peering at him from under the hood. She was like a superhero or something. With the whole secret identity thing.

            "Ye-ah," Wash choked. "Yep. Fi--fine."

            "All right," said Connie, and she kept walking, her footsteps soft against layers and layers of dust. Charon Hall could have been ten thousand years old, the way it seemed to sink beneath them into the surrounding land.

            Wash hurried to catch up with her, dragging his shirt up to cover his nose and mouth. He was so intent on his mission that he nearly crashed directly into York, who rounded the corner out of nowhere and promptly caught him by the arms in an attempt to steady him. Wash tripped over York's foot and they both backed up hard against the wall. A portrait, so dirtied that it was impossible to tell who exactly was in it, swung ominously above them on its hooks.

            "Easy, kid," said York, dropping his hands from Wash's arms. "What're you so -- hey, look out!" Wash stared up as the portrait frame tilted and then came hurtling down directly at his face.

             He hardly registered the thud of York's shoulder shoving him away from the wall, his eyes fixed on the portrait as it smashed to the ground just in front of them, barely missing Wash's toes.

            For a moment they both stared down at the broken glass and bits of wooden frame. "That would've been bad," said Wash, taking a shuddering breath.

            "Probably," York agreed. He clapped Wash on the shoulder. "But hey, now it's a real ghost hunt, right?"

            "York, I think we should leave," Wash said, his heartbeat still shivering in his chest.

            York waved a hand at him. "Nah, man, we haven't even gone upstairs yet."

            "But York --"

            "You go find Connie, okay? I'm gonna go upstairs. Just -- don't step on the glass. And stay away from the walls."

            "...Okay," Wash said reluctantly, and York left him with an encouraging smile before trotting down the hall. Wash stepped carefully over the glass and went in search of Connie again, watching the walls nervously as he went.

*

            York found Carolina standing near the edge of the staircase, staring out the window. Or at least as far out the window as you could see, through all the grime embedded in the glass. Her hair seemed brighter against the grayness of everything else.

            "Hey," said York, "if you were a ghost, where would you be?"

            Carolina turned toward him, looking unsurprised at his appearance. "I would be nowhere," she said. "Because there's no such thing as ghosts."

            A door slammed somewhere nearby at this pronouncement, and for a moment York felt a thrill of hope. Then Maine opened the door again and rumbled, "Sorry," in their general direction.

            "S'okay," York said, shoulders dropping in disappointment. Maine came ambling toward them, the floor creaking under his heavy footsteps.

            "No ghosts," he reported.

            "Not yet," York corrected. "We haven't been upstairs yet. They say she died in her room, and the student rooms were upstairs."

            "Why do you know this?" called North from across the hall, where he appeared to be keeping tabs on South's erratic roaming.

            "I did my research, man!" York called back. He'd been researching ever since he heard the story, whenever his essays or worksheets got too boring.

            "If you would put that much effort into your homework..." Carolina trailed off, shaking her head. York just shrugged.

            "There are more important things than homework. Is anybody goin' up with me?"

            "I'll wait here," Carolina said, folding her arms.

            York studied her carefully. "Are you sure? There could be like, interdimensional portals up there -- stuff the likes of which nobody's ever seen in their _whole lives_."

            "I'll wait here," Carolina repeated flatly, though her lips curved just a little bit toward a smile.

            "Maine?" York tried. "There could be architectural wonders the likes of which nobody's ever seen in their _whole_ \--"

            "Okay," interrupted Maine, shrugging. He started up the stairs at a quick pace, the floorboards making various suspicious noises below his feet. A sudden gust of wind rattled something against the window Carolina had been gazing through, maybe a loosened latch, and York took it as a cue to go bounding up after Maine.

            He was nearly at the top when the _crack_ of splintering wood reverberated up his legs. York froze with his left foot suspended in mid-air, hands gripping tight to the banister. Time slowed to near stop-motion, and he tilted his head to watch the staircase dismantle itself beneath him, the rotted wood caving in.

            "Shit," York pronounced clearly, an oppressive sense of calm settling over him. He was about to fall. There was no way around it. Nowhere else to go.

            "York, _move!_ " Carolina shouted from some great distance, and he turned just in time to see the frightened flash of her green eyes before the world went crashing down.

 

 


	7. Charon Hall: Part II

Carolina could hear people moving and talking around her, but they didn't particularly seem to matter. South shouting, North speaking in frantic tones, Wash and Connie emerging from a doorway with wide eyes and questions on their lips. None of it mattered at the moment. She moved with perfect calm toward the collapsed stairs, toward York lying there on his side, surrounded by the broken wood.

            "York," Carolina said, kneeling beside him. "Hang in there." Like an order. "I need--" she stopped short. Couldn't say it, not like that. _I need you to hang in there._

            His chest was moving now, rising and falling with shallow breaths. He struggled up toward her with a rough gasp, trying to brace himself on split wood that shifted beneath his hands and left him leaning like a building about to topple.

            Carolina touched his trembling shoulder as though that alone would be enough to keep him from collapsing. "Stay still."

            Instead, York turned his head to look at her.

            Her stomach gave a sick lurch. Blood covered the left side of his face, thick streams flowing from jagged wounds that carved down across his eyelid. The blood trickled over and through his eye, which was half-closed and -- and Carolina could not look at it for much longer than a few seconds before she felt nauseous. Shallow wounds striped his forearms, and the splintered wood beside him was soaked red. He was shaking all over. It could have been a hundred degrees below zero, the way he shook.

            "Did you s--" York started, trying to shift himself in her direction, and he was interrupted by his own sharp cry of pain at the movement. It struck through her fog of calm and for just a second Carolina felt a flare of panic.

            "Stop talking," she told him, and he, being York, opened his mouth again.

            "...s-see a-any...ghosts?" he finished through gritted teeth. His mouth twisted in a clear attempt at a smile, but it didn't stick. He lowered his head and took a few short, coarse breaths. Blood trickled down over his lips.

            "Shut up," Carolina answered, and she lifted her hand to wipe uselessly at the blood slicking across his chin.

            "C'mon," York said softly, his good eye staring up at her. He tried to sit up straighter and that _noise_ came from him again, a surprised yelp, and he fell back.

            " _Shut up and stay still,_ " Carolina said angrily, and he didn't respond this time, just lowered his chin and twisted his lips again in that failed smile.

            She stood and turned around to find North -- he would know what to do, she thought dimly -- and then paused midstep.

            The others were all standing behind her already, almost as though they were awaiting orders. Even Maine, who had to have somehow gotten himself down from the second floor in the past ten minutes. Maybe a window. There were burs and leaves sticking to the sleeves of his shirt.

            All of them looked pale and frightened in the thin gray light. All of them were waiting for her to say something.    

            "Someone needs to call an ambulance," Carolina said, her voice perfectly clear and firm. "And someone else needs to call campus safety. Tell them there's an urgent injury in Charon Hall."

            "I called the ambulance already," North said, stepping over the debris and shouldering his way past Carolina to take a closer look at his friend.

            He hardly faltered, to his credit. There was only a moment of slight hesitation before he crouched down and dropped his hand lightly on York's shoulder, and when he spoke his voice strained resolutely toward good humor.

             "Come on, man. You gotta quit gettin' your face all bloody."

            "Yeah," York responded quietly. "Yeah." His right eye fluttered and then closed, and he took a long, trembling breath. North frowned and sat down cross-legged beside him, talking in quiet tones.

            "Is he okay?" Wash said in a hushed voice somewhere behind Carolina, and she didn't even turn around for that one.

            "No, he's not fucking _okay_ , what the fuck is _wrong_ with you?" South snarled at Wash, exploding so swiftly and completely that Carolina was displaced by her anger for a moment.  Then there came Maine's low and grounding rumble, something Carolina couldn't distinguish, and South snapped, "It's not _my fault_ he's an idiot."

            "Don't call me that," Wash responded coldly, which was impressive for Wash. But they didn't have time for bickering.

            "Someone needs to call campus safety," Carolina repeated loudly over whatever South's retort was going to be, and was mollified by the sound of someone dialing their phone. That would be Wash. He'd neglected to turn the sound off on his dialpad and it routinely annoyed everyone whenever he sent a text.

             She returned to York. North was talking to him and getting one word mumbles in response.

            "Hey, if you could be any animal..." North started, and Carolina closed her eyes briefly.       

            When she opened them Connie was standing there, and Carolina had to force herself not to startle.

            "Here," said Connie, shrugging off her oversized sweatshirt and handing it to Carolina. She looked like she was trying to shrug off her worry as well. "We should make sure he's warm. In case he goes into shock." She paused, then added, "I took an EMT class once in high school."

            Carolina looked at her for a moment, trying to process this, then nodded and took the sweatshirt. Her hands trembled slightly and she felt a swift streak of shame, but Connie did not seem to have noticed.  

            "Thanks," Carolina said, and knelt again to spread the sweatshirt over York's chest like a blanket. North leaned back, going quiet. Everyone else had gathered around her now and she tried to ignore the way they looked at her, like she would give them some sort of answers that they couldn't find. She covered York's arms with the sleeves, and she was tucking the hood uselessly over his shoulder when his hand came up suddenly to grip hers.

            He mumbled something, and it took her a moment to realize that he had meant it as her name.

            " _'Lina._ "

            He didn't open his eyes.

            Carolina's knees ached against the wooden floor. She could hear Wash fidgeting.  

            Then North stood, folding his arms and gazing down at York. "He's going to be fine."

            South gave a noise of disbelief. "How do _you_ know? Are you a doctor?"

            "He always ends up fine," North said firmly.

            "Why the fuck did we even come here?" South said in a clumsy imitation of her usual growl, and no one answered her. Carolina watched the blood trickle down over York's neck, and reached out to wipe it away again with her free hand.

            "It could be worse," said Connie, standing still beside her. Quiet, self-assured, as though she had seen many disasters in her time. "I wouldn't worry too much just yet."

             "I'm not worried," Carolina responded.

            She wasn't lying. She didn't feel worried at all. She didn't feel anything except York's hand, tightening around hers.

*

            York didn't remember moving. Carolina had said to stay still. But it looked like he'd screwed up because now the ceiling was different and there were new people around him and there was so much -- so much _noise_. Noise had never bothered him before, but this was -- just, he couldn't _catch_ it, couldn't pin it down. A blur of screaming sirens and metallic sounds and overlapping voices. Pain came scraping in and out whenever he blinked. People asked him questions and sometimes he mumbled broken answers. ("York. James. But I'm York.") Sometimes he asked them questions, half-formed and trailing away from him. ("D'you know where...my friend...my...North?") No one answered him. No one knew who North was. Hadn't he just been talking to North...?

             A woman was dabbing at his face with something wet and sharp smelling, and then she started to tape some kind of bandage over his left eye.  

            He tried to lift his hand toward her in a sort of wave, but his arm was fastened to this -- thing, this bed thing, whatever this was. "Hey, man," York said, "I...I can't see, like that."

            "We're going to try to save the eye," said someone else soothingly.

            "Okay..." He wanted to ask whose eye they were going to save. It felt like a television show. He wanted to ask what show they were on...but something thick was flowing through his veins now. Something that made him feel warm and floating, and he didn't really mind it when they taped a bandage over his right eye too.

            "I can't see, man," he said to the woman again, but in an amicable sort of way. Like commenting on some minor inconvenience. A rainy day.

            "Just relax," she replied. "We're almost there."

            "D'you know my friends?" York answered. "North...um, South...Carolina?"

            "Are you from there?" asked the woman.

            "From where?" said York, and for a moment the floating got to be too much, and he lost all of his words, felt them slip from his mouth and dissolve into the air. That had never happened before. He listened in case they came back.

            "We've called your mom," said someone else in the darkness. "From your phone contacts. She's on her way." They were trying to be soothing, he recognized, but it wasn't working too well because of the darkness part. York tried shifting his head side to side -- maybe he'd see something that way -- but his neck wouldn't budge.

            "You know my mom?" he asked.

            "Just relax," repeated the woman from before, and York wanted to tell her that he was fine. He was totally, completely fine, and did she know where his friends went? Because they were worried, and someone should tell them he was fine. He opened his mouth to ask, but nothing came out except a slow sigh. And the noise began to gently fade away.

*

            "Soooo...what exactly were you doing all the way up here?" asked the campus safety officer, looking around at all of them with an expression that tried toward sternness and ended up somewhere around puzzlement. He was young and bored and, Carolina thought, avoidable.

            "Just 'cause, you know," he went on, "I'm _99% sure_ you guys weren't supposed to be up here."

            The ambulance had driven off a few minutes ago, sirens blaring, and they had found themselves cornered shortly afterward. Carolina stared after it, the flashing lights still imprinted in her vision, and tried to calculate the fastest route to Maine's minivan.

            "We were exploring. Our friend walked up the stairs, and they collapsed," North said, calm and clear.

            "Exploring. Right." The officer's expression was doubtful. Carolina's eyes went to the nametag on his uniform. _Officer L. Tucker._

            "Yes," said North, as firm as if he were answering questions in a courtroom. Carolina glanced at him. He was affecting a wide-eyed, honest expression. Or maybe he wasn't affecting it at all. Maybe that was just his face.

            The officer scratched his head. "Okay, look. You're all gonna have to fill out some accident witness forms, and then we'll have a chat about why you were here. C'mon."  He gestured toward the campus safety building, down near the student center.

            "Sorry, sir, but we have to go," said Carolina, stepping forward to stand beside North, who blinked at her. "Our friend is in the hospital."

            "We -- yeah. We can come back later?" North said, and Carolina marched back down toward the path they'd come from, ignoring Officer Tucker's shout of, "Hey, wait!" The six of them  took off at a near-run through the trees, and Carolina could just barely hear Wash call back, "Is this against the rules?"

*

            The town blurred past in a series of streetlights and occasional flashes of orange Halloween decorations, and the minivan suffocated with silence. Until Maine finally reached over to turn on the radio, and the Monster Mash started playing, and South burst out into choked laughter before announcing, "This is the worst Halloween ever."

            "Of all time," agreed Wash dully.

            "He's going to be fine," North said, for the millionth time. No one answered him.

            Maine turned the radio off again.

 

*

           

            South hated hospitals. Had always hated them, had probably been born hating them. The amount of times she'd visited them for one reckless mistake or another had not improved her feelings. She hated the sharp, clinical smell, the wide, white walls, the endless paperwork, the arbitrary rules, the tasteless food, and most of all, the sense that everything was organized by a power far above herself.

            So when the nurse at the front desk looked her coolly in the eyes and said, "I can't give you that information," South felt a tirade coming on.

            She planted both fists on the desk.

            "What d'you mean you _can't give me that information?_ He's our _friend._ He'd _want_ us to know if he was okay or not. Are you _seriously_ not going to fucking tell us if he's _dying?_ All we want to know is if he's fucking _dying_ or something. What the _fuck_ kind of -- _augh!_ " She struggled against her brother's arms as he dragged her wordlessly away toward the waiting area. Or at least, she struggled as much as she could without actually hurting him. She could hurt him if she wanted. She could make him let go.

            She didn't want to, though. She wanted North to stay here. Wanted him to make her forget the sight of York lying there with a puddle of blood under his head.

            " _That information is restricted to family only_ ," South repeated furiously, sitting down hard in one of the stained plastic chairs, her arms falling heavy in her lap. North sat in the adjacent chair, watching her. She glared up at him. "We _are_ his family," she said. Her voice felt wavery. She didn't like it.

            "I know," North said. His voice sounded wavery too.

            "Fucking hospitals," South muttered, and tipped her head back to hit the wall.

            Wash and Connie came over after a few moments, sitting in chairs across from South and North.

            "Get anything out of 'em?" North asked, and South tilted her head forward to see Wash frown.

            "No. She said they called his mom, though, and that his mom might tell us what's going on when she gets here." Wash paused, fidgeting with his hands. "And she also said she was sorry."

            South snorted. "Yeah, okay."

            Connie said nothing, only glancing repeatedly around the room as though she were playing fucking _I Spy_.

            "Where's Carolina and Maine?" North said, leaning forward a little, hands resting over each other. That was one of his worried poses. Level One of worrying. Worry Lite.

            "They went to find food, I think?" Wash said.

            "Oh, okay," North said, leaning back again. He had not stopped worrying about it, though. He had merely gone into a latent pose. Prepared to leap into full on Heavy Duty Worry at any moment.

            The room was too quiet. South gave an angry sigh. "Hey," she said, and Wash and Connie both looked at her warily.

            "Anybody wanna play _I Spy?_ " South asked. She felt North smile beside her.

*

            There was something wrong with Carolina.

            Maine didn't know what. Only that there was something wrong. The way she had stood in the hospital lobby with her shoulders tightened, barely moving except to breathe. And how her eyes had gotten fixed on nothing in particular. But especially how she'd stopped talking, stopped telling everyone what to do.

            So while South shouted at the hospital employees, Maine had turned to Carolina and said, "Are you hungry?"

            She had blinked at him as though half-waking from a dream. "No."

            "I am," Maine had said. He'd pointed at a laminated sign taped to the wall beside the front desk. CAFETERIA DOWNSTAIRS. "Do you want to go?"

            Carolina had blinked at him again, then nodded slowly.

            And so now they were sitting at a small table with rickety, metal-backed chairs. Maine had gotten a soggy looking sandwich. Carolina had chosen a bottle of diet soda. There were Halloween-themed cupcakes that Maine was tempted toward, but he didn't have any more cash on him. No one else was in the cafeteria; the tired-eyed woman at the cash register had informed them severely that it would be closing in fifteen minutes.

            "Are you okay?" Maine said, after Carolina had taken one sip from her soda and then stared at it for about five straight minutes.

            "Yes." She looked at him flatly, like he wasn't even there. "Why does everyone always ask me that?" she muttered, and took another sip of the soda.

            _Because you always look not-okay,_ Maine thought. But he didn't say anything. Only shrugged and went back to his sandwich.

            There was something wrong with Carolina, but she wasn't about to tell any of them what it was. And he wasn't going to ask.

            "Let's go back," Carolina said, standing with her soda in hand, and Maine nodded.

*

            York's mother arrived after almost exactly an hour, striding in through the glass doors with tightly controlled fear in every movement. She wore a gray button-down coat, her purse half-slipping off her shoulder, light brown hair in disarray around her shoulders.

            "That's his mom," North said quietly to the others, but Carolina had known the moment she walked in. Something about the way she wore her worry. She walked past as though she hadn't seen them at all, and wasted no time in finding the first available nurse to engage in hurried conversation.

            Carolina watched from the corner she'd chosen in the waiting room. They were the only ones here, which struck her as somewhat unusual for a Halloween night.  She was seated between Maine and Connie, and across from North, who glanced at her every now and then like he wanted to say something. If he said one more time that York was going to be fine, she was probably going to punch him.

            Before North could open his mouth, though, York's mom came sweeping into the waiting room to face the twins, who both scrambled to their feet. "Hi, Mrs. Y--" North started, and was interrupted by York's mom pulling him into an embrace.

            "It's Siona," she said fondly. "How many times to I have to tell you that?" She turned next to pull South into a quick hug -- angry, punk-rock, spike-wearing South, who reacted in a manner that Carolina found unnaturally docile. "I miss you two hanging around my house. How's school?"

            "S'okay," said South, shrugging backward out of the hug. "How's York? That--" She paused for a fraction of a second. "-- _nurse_ wouldn't tell us anything."

            "Oh, right, right, I'm sorry," said York's mom -- Siona. She glanced around the room and paused for the briefest of moments on Carolina's face, then looked back toward South. "He's perfectly stable," she told the room at large, attaching a determined smile to her words. "And nothing's broken. It's just his eye."

            "His _eye?_ " South repeated.

            Carolina wondered if she had seen it. The way the wound gouged right through, so much blood spilling over that by the time the ambulance arrived it was nearly impossible to tell where the blood began and whether there was an eye under all of it anyway...

            Siona nodded. "It'll be a few hours, they think. They're not sure how bad it'll be," she said, almost as though in warning. South started to ask something else, but Siona turned back toward Carolina again. "And I don't believe I've met you four?" she said, smiling at them all in an admirable effort toward politeness, considering the deep worry obvious in her expression.

            "I'm Wash," said Wash, standing to shake her hand. Connie and Maine followed suit, and after a moment, so did Carolina. She had to resist the impulse to affect a mask of indifference.

            "I'm Carolina," she said, managing a smile that felt strange and wrong on her lips. "It's nice to meet you." She paused. "Despite the circumstances."

            Siona smiled at her. "You're Carolina. Of course you are. I should've known by the hair."    

            Carolina blinked, stifling a flinch when Siona's hand fell on her shoulder in what seemed to be meant as a comforting gesture.

            "He's talked about you, said you've been helping him with school," said Siona, still smiling, and Carolina nodded dumbly. Of course he'd talked about her to his mother. Why not, when he talked about everything to everyone? He was probably talking to the doctors right now, babbling a stream of useless words...

            _'Lina,_ he'd said to her, only an hour or two ago, when he was holding her hand and trying so desperately to stay awake. No one had ever called her that.

            "So," said Siona, smoothing her hair and sitting down in one of the plastic chairs. "How _is_ school?"

            North and South began talking about their classes, South leading the way with aggressive impressions of her professors that Carolina assumed were probably about 5% accurate. They were entirely at ease, speaking as if to family. It was quickly becoming clear that there was no room for awkward silences in Siona's presence; she ushered them away with a few swift words and a smile. Occasionally Wash offered a fact here or there, shy and blushing whenever Siona smiled at him encouragingly. Connie sat and read a Health Digest magazine while Maine appeared to simply be listening silently.

            Carolina was trying not to leave. She could feel it thrumming through her entire body, the intense desire to stand up and walk out the door, to walk all the way back to Freemont Lancel if she had to, to get away --

            And she pushed it down. She sat very still. She tried not to feel anything.

*

            By the time the doctor finally emerged from the hallway to talk to York's mom, North had already exhausted every topic of school-related conversation that did not lead toward incriminating York in any misdeeds. His mom hadn't asked them about the actual accident at all -- either she'd heard all she wanted from the paramedics, or she'd decided she would be asking her son personally. Probably the latter. Siona York -- he was never in his life going to manage calling her Siona out loud -- could be a formidable force if she wanted to be. North had witnessed more than a few of her lectures over the years.

            Siona spoke quietly with the doctor for a few moments, gesturing toward the waiting room every now and then, and North tried to stop checking on Carolina. She was looking -- almost like she was about to be sick. She had been sitting so still for so long. It didn't seem right. She didn't seem right. Well, of course she wasn't, none of them were, but -- none of them were looking like Carolina, either.

            At least South yelled and fought when she was upset, North mused. At least she let it out. This had never seemed like a particularly good quality until just now.

            "All right," Siona said, stepping back into the waiting room with her usual smile wavering a little. "You can come see him."

            Carolina stood first. North followed with South's clipped steps behind him, dimly aware of Maine, Wash, and Connie toward the back of the group. They were a big group. Weird that the doctor was letting them all in. Maybe Siona had talked him into it. The halls were oddly quiet, and they had to duck into a large, wide elevator that left North backed against a wall, South fitting herself narrowly between him and Carolina. He tried to exchange a glance with Carolina, to offer her some kind of...some sense that she wasn't the only one worried. But she stared straight ahead, her gaze focused on their skewed reflection in the metal doors.

*

            York was asleep. He was more asleep than North had ever seen him, his mouth open slightly and his arms spread out and covered in a thin layer of bandaging, leaving just enough room for the IV.

            His left eye was covered in heavy gauze, the bandages wrapping around the side of his head so that tufts of his hair stuck up in odd places. A few thick lines of stitches trailed down his left cheek beneath the bandages, closing up the jagged wounds that had bled so much just hours before. They looked raw and fake, like someone had taken movie make-up to his skin.

            "Hey man," said North quietly, and York didn't answer. Didn't so much as sigh in his sleep. York had probably never been that still in his life.

             The air felt thick, and North wanted to sit down again, but there was nowhere to sit and anyway he couldn't manage to move his feet away from York's bedside. He couldn't stop staring at the stitches, the way they crossed darkly over the angry red of the wounds. South had gotten stitches plenty of times. He was used to seeing her banged up, used to nagging her about changing bandages or holding an ice pack to her various bruises. But York had always managed to escape their dumb high school (and then freshmen) adventures without a scratch.

            "Jesus," said South, standing beside North. "He looks like shit."

            "He'll be all right," said North automatically, but his voice came out funny. He glanced across at the others, shifting to make room for them to come up closer if they wanted. Carolina stood toward the back of the room with Maine. He stayed beside her like a sentry. Connie and Wash -- and North had begun to think of them this way, Connie-and-Wash, for the amount of times they showed up as a pair -- both came tentatively up toward York. Wash looking a little green, Connie peering curiously over at the bandages on York's face.

            "He could've died," said Wash in a hushed voice, and North felt his shoulders slowly sink. They had all been thinking it. No one had wanted to say it.

            The door clicked open, and when North turned his head he saw the red flash of Carolina's ponytail disappearing into the hallway.

*

            He could've died.

            Because of _her_. Because she had to prove herself, because she had to get angry enough to go stomping into what she _knew_ was a horrible idea. Because--

            Carolina stopped short in the middle of the hallway, nearly bumping into York's mom -- no, Siona. She was walking slowly back from the direction of the vending machines at the end of the hall with a candy bar in her hand.

            She frowned at Carolina, her brow wrinkling. "Are you all--"

            "I'm sorry for what happened," Carolina interrupted, heart pounding as suddenly as if she'd just been running.

            "Sorry?" Siona repeated, tilting her head and watching Carolina as though deciding if she ought to be concerned. She had eyes just like her son's. Deep gray-blue. Carolina gazed back at her, working hard to stay calm.

            "It's my fault that he went into the house, ma'am. I knew it was a bad idea and I didn't stop him. I told him I wanted to go."

            There was a moment's pause that accompanied this statement and then Siona was pulling her into a hug and Carolina was fighting the urge to flee. She couldn't help flinching this time, eyes wide, muscles tense. The last time someone hugged her must have been a long time ago, because this felt so _foreign_. And...warm. She hadn't even known that she'd been cold.

            Siona released her quickly, maybe feeling her discomfort. "Sweetie," she said, stepping back. "He's been talking about that house since he went on the campus tour over a year ago. Nobody can stop James when he gets an idea in his head -- come hell or high water, he'll make it happen." She smiled wryly. "He got hurt for his own foolhardiness, and that's all there is to it."

            "I," said Carolina, then stopped. _I should have stopped him._ Useless words.

            "Oh, and please don't call me ma'am," Siona added, seeming not to notice Carolina's failed attempt at words. "I've been telling the twins for years, just call me Siona."

            Carolina blinked a few times -- her eyes felt strange and stinging -- and nodded. "Okay," she said quietly. "Thank you."

            Siona shook her head. "You've got nothing to thank me for. I should be thanking all of you for taking such good care of him."       

            Carolina blinked up at her, at the sincerity in her smile, and said, "We...did our best."

            Siona squeezed her shoulder. "You did beautifully. Now why don't you all get back home and get some rest? He'll be here in the morning. Visiting hours start at ten. We could all do breakfast in the cafeteria," she said brightly.

            Carolina couldn't seem to speak. There were words she should have been saying, but they weren't arriving from her throat. So she just nodded, and turned around to go back to York's room.

*

            When they finally left, the quiet of the parking lot surprised her. It seeped like cold beneath her skin, the silence threatening to erase her, and Carolina held herself up a little taller in order to tell it she was still here.

            Maine pressed a button on his keys and the lights of the minivan blinked out from its mooring in the darkness. They walked toward it together, footsteps scraping out over the gravel.

*

            Somehow or another, they all ended up in North's room. Maybe because it seemed wrong, somehow, to split up now and go back to their dorms like nothing had happened, like it was a regular night. Or maybe just because North and York still had a stockpile of chocolate pudding and everyone was starving. Either way.

            South had claimed North's bed, curling up against the pillow with her iPod clutched in both hands, earbuds firmly in place, faint music drifting into the air. Maine perched on the very end of the bed, shoulders hunched, eyes intent on the comic book in his hands.

            Wash and Connie were sitting close together on the couch, looking through one of North's art books ( _Alien Punchers 2: Official Concept Art_ ). Every now and then Connie would murmur something about the art not being accurate to the books' descriptions.

            Carolina was in York's desk chair, her shoulders slumped and eyelids slowly drooping until she'd shake her head in a clear attempt to stave off sleep. Then they'd start to droop again.

            And North sat at his own desk, leaning back in the chair with his feet splayed out in front of him, his eyes on the ceiling, mind drifting nowhere in particular. The image of York's face covered in ugly stitching kept finding its way into his thoughts somehow, and he'd have to tune himself in to Connie and Wash's conversation to get it out again.

            He wished someone else would start talking too, to fill up the spaces in the air where everyone's worry seemed to linger. And then he remembered -- that was York's job.

            No one so much as touched York's bed despite the prolific yawning that kept cycling around the room. They left it empty, as though they were expecting York to stroll in any moment now without a scratch on him. North kept thinking York was going to be upset about all the empty pudding cups in the trash when he got back. Then he'd remember all over again that York wasn't coming back at all.

            After a while Carolina somehow migrated to the floor, taking the extra blankets that North offered. She folded a neat bed onto the carpet as Wash stepped sleepily out into the hall to go and retrieve more bedding. Maine had fallen back across North's bed in a snoring heap, legs stretching out over the frame. South remained curled over the pillow with her eyes shut tight, though she grumbled incoherently every now and then; a sure sign of dreaming. Connie slept on the couch with the art book at her feet, and Wyoming whuffled softly in his cage, chewing and glaring at all of them.

            North looked at York's empty bed, then at Carolina.

            "Hey," he said, going over to lean down beside her. She was sitting cross-legged on top of her blankets, apparently unwilling to sleep just yet. "You should take the bed. I can take the floor."

            "It's fine," Carolina replied, blinking up at him, eyes too tired to fully focus on his face.

            "You're the guest," North insisted. "And the floor's uncomfortable. He'd...not to be weird, but...he'd want you to have the bed."

            And after a moment of blank-faced silence, Carolina stood and made her way over to York's bed. No further convincing required, which struck North as unusual. But she was tired. They were all tired. Beyond that, really. They were in that sort of state that occurred when you'd been up all night worrying about a thing you couldn't change, a surreal manner of being that cast all other concerns out of mind and made the world feel sluggish and strange.

            North settled himself on the floor as Carolina climbed into York's unmade bed, dragging the covers over herself and curling up to face the wall. He closed his eyes, exhaustion beginning to weigh him down at last. After a while he heard the door open and close as Wash came back into the room with an armful of blankets.

            "North?" he whispered, puzzled, and North opened his eyes slightly.

            "You take 'em, man," he said. "I'm good. Just, shut the light, okay?"

            Wash nodded, flicking a switch on the wall, and wandered back toward the couch. There was the whisper of blankets settling on the floor there, and then quiet. Except for Maine's snores and the occasional grumble from South.

            If North hadn't known better -- if tonight hadn't been one of the worst nights of his life -- he would almost have called it peaceful.

*

            Carolina buried her face in York's pillow, feeling somehow that this was both wrong and absolutely necessary. She hadn't realized that York had a distinct scent until it was surrounding her. Hints of woods and comic book ink and coffee, and something else, something that could only be fully described as Yorkishness.

            This was _weird_ , to be sleeping in his bed. It had to be somehow wrong. Not allowed. But she was so warm...

            She drew the blankets tight around her shoulders, and thought that the room should have felt crowded.

            All it felt, though, was safe. 


	8. Visiting Hours

York's room was glowing with ghost light. He could practically hear the air crackle with it, buckling under an overload of all the spiritual presence stuff that he'd read about in books and seen on TV. Ghosts everywhere, just towers of white, and in the middle of them all was Carolina with her back turned to him, her hair a wavering flame.

            "Hey, man, be careful," York said, because she wasn't wearing shoes and there were these broken picture frames everywhere, bits of glass and splintered wood. Carolina didn't seem to hear him so he tried to step toward her. But the floor kept on bending beneath him, kept on scaring him back.

            Carolina turned and he tried to catch sight of her face, but everything spun around with her and for just a moment York couldn't see anything at all. And then he could, and Carolina was standing beside him with a stack of records in her arms.

            "York," she said. "Did you do your essay?"

            "Yeah, it's on my desk," said York. And he felt a burst of panic, because there were too many ghosts in front of his desk, and Professor Delta was going to be so pissed and probably he was gonna fail and if he didn't pass this class he'd have to tell his  _mom_.

            "You gotta help me find it," York said, looking at Carolina pleadingly.

            "I can't stay long," Carolina replied with a shake of her head. "We need to listen to these for the test," she added, and started handing him the records. One by one they shattered at his touch.

            "Yeah, but they're not gonna work," York said, trying frantically to fit the pieces together, but they kept slipping from his hands and turning to dust when they hit the floor. Then someone -- the ghosts? -- started to sing "Can't Buy Me Love" and the floor was shivering and York tried to grab Carolina's arm but it was like trying to hold smoke because she wasn't  _there_ , not really, she was a ghost like the rest of them and disappearing into fragmented light and --  _I'll buy you a diamond ring my friend_ \-- the floor, the floor was going to break and they were going to fall, any second now -- and his mom was gonna be so mad, so mad --

             _I'll get you anything, my friend--_

            York turned around, scanning for the doorway, a window,  _something_  -- but all he saw was Wyoming sitting on his desk, glaring and eating his American Literature essay page by page.

            York threw his hands up at the guinea pig. "Are youkidding me? Are you fucking _kidding_ me? You're such an  _asshole_."

            Wyoming stared with dark, angry eyes, and then he opened his mouth wide, and wider and wider, and all the ghosts went swirling in like he was some kinda Ghost Busters vacuum-guinea-pig-hybrid. The music faded and the floor drifted gently from beneath York's feet and for a moment he just floated there, almost peaceful.

            Until somehow Carolina was back beside him again. She touched his chin and whispered, "Don't move," and everything went plummeting down.

*

            York broke awake with a drowning gasp, mind spinning in panic until he felt the world, still solid, beneath him.

            Nothing  _looked_  solid, though. White walls and pale blue sheets over his legs -- it all kept blurring back and forth,  except... York blinked hard, then winced at the pain of it. Except everything was half-gone. Everything disappeared on the left side, and there was a slow pounding in his head that strengthened when he tilted his head that way.

            "Hey, North?" York said, the name coming out stretched and uneasy. North would know what was wrong. North pretty much always knew what was wrong.

            But there was no answer except for the machine beeping steadily beside York's bed.

            Well -- no, not  _his_  bed. Somebody's bed. His bed was next to North's bed, and North wasn't here, so this wasn't his bed, so it was somebody's, definitely, somebody...

            For a moment York drifted, closing his eye to try and focus his mind. Which didn't really work, but the pounding in his head was such a steady rhythm that it was sort of admirable, like a good drummer -- _good job, head._  He raised his hand experimentally toward the left side of his face, fingertips brushing over what felt like layers of rough fabric. It took him a moment to recognize the texture of gauze, and then he opened his eye to the tubes coming out of his right arm.

            "Aw, no," York said quietly to the machine, which beeped in acknowledgment of his own quickening heartbeat. Tubes in his arm. No, no, no, no.  _(Beep, beep, beep, beep_. _)_  Tubes in his arm meant a needle in his arm. Needles meant hospitals. And hospitals -- well. Hospitals sure didn't mean anything fun.

            "North?" York tried again, and this time he sounded a little scared, and North wouldn't like that. So he steadied his voice and added, "Hey man, where are you?"

            North didn't answer. So either he was playing the world's cruelest game of hide and go seek (he _knew_  how much York hated hospitals) or he wasn't there. Neither of those options made a lot of sense.

            York squinted down at his arm again, trying to make out the pattern of bandages that crisscrossed past the tubes taped near the inside of his elbow. But his eye kept tearing up because of all the squinting he was having to do, because of all the blurring, and anyway he couldn't see much of the bandage besides the color. Well. Lack of color.

            All of him hurt in a dull, aching sort of way, but a surface way. Like having a fever except it was just, it was all over his skin, and meanwhile his head kept up its pounding, like somebody was knocking from the inside.  

            "I think I fell," York told the beeping machine, which seemed poised to be his only friend in this shifting, too-pale room. He was used to colors on the walls. Bright colors everywhere, comic book covers, superhero capes, Captain America's good ol' red-white-and-blue...

            But -- wait. He  _fell._  He could remember that. Could remember the ground buckling beneath him, the wet-metal stench of blood coating everything -- man,  _everything_. Never knew blood could smell so thick, never thought about the smell before. And he -- he'd been so hazed over with pain, he could barely manage to make a single bad joke to Carolina.

            Carolina, wiping blood from his chin while he tried not to make a sound, even though everything inside of him was advising that he ought to start screaming. But no, no, he'd stayed mostly quiet because she was worried, and North, North was worried, and South was yelling at everyone because that was how South worried.

            York dragged his non-tubed arm up to touch the left-side bandage again. There was something hard and plasticky beneath the gauze over his eye, and when his fingers trailed downward he could feel thick, raised lines across his cheek. They stung at his touch. Stitches? He'd never had them before. But he remembered the iron-and-salt taste of blood in his mouth, because it kept slipping between his lips, because he kept talking. And Carolina had said --

            Carolina had said,  _Don't move._

            York thought about that for a moment. Then he pushed his bedsheets aside clumsily and tried swinging his feet over the side of the mattress. It took an effort, a real effort to get his legs over that edge. Maybe they were tired. Anyway somebody had put socks on his feet, so that was cool.   
  
            He straightened up slowly, concentrating on watching his feet to make sure they stayed put. Turned out he was wearing pants too, which was good. Hospital pajama pants. And a shirt. That was good and all but -- pants, man. Sometimes they didn't let you have pants. But sometimes a guy seriously needed his pants, so it was good they understood that here. If they understood pants then maybe they'd understand other things, too, like how he was fine and he was ready to go home and they should probably take the needle away because, uh --

            "Whoa, wait," York said, because the floor was tilting suddenly sideways. He staggered, his feet slipping on the tile, and grabbed onto his IV pole.

            "Don't -- don't do that," York told the floor, and somehow he slipped forward and his right shoulder thudded up against a wall, the IV pole crashing alongside him with a noise that made the pounding in his head turn briefly to thunder. He scraped uselessly at the smooth surface of the wall before pressing his back up against it as something on a shelf nearby clattered to the ground. He couldn't see it, the thing that fell, and maybe there were more things, and anyway the floor was still tilting back and forth, so -- so he'd just wait here till it finished, 'cause it was kinda making him want to puke. Just a little.

            "What's going on in here?" came a sharp voice from somewhere near the doorway, and York lifted his gaze from the shifting floortiles to blink at the shape of a person walking toward him. The blur was still pretty bad, but by the time the person was standing in front of him he knew that she was a nurse, and she was a she, and she was maybe kinda angry.

            "Hey man," York said. "D'you know where North is?"

            The nurse stared at him. "What, like the direction?" She thumbed at the window. "That way."

            York tilted his head, trying to focus. There were these designs on her scrubs, and maybe they were something else but they looked like angel wings on her shoulders. "Nah," he said. "Nah, like the one who's my friend?"

            "Yeahhh, no," said the nurse. "The only north I know is on a compass." She smiled at him, he thought, maybe. "Welcome back to the waking world, by the way. You sure are making an entrance."

            "Oh," said York, leaning forward onto his own legs experimentally. They swayed and he fell back against the wall. "That's good. Uh, that's... Where is this? Again?"

            "Room 479, Dufresne Memorial Hospital, Earth," the nurse rattled off, sounding slightly amused. "You can call me Amelia. I'll be your pilot for this journey. Now how about we get you back to that bed over there? You look a little green."

            "I feel okay," York assured her, taking a step forward to prove it. He promptly stumbled sideways, feet slipping on the tiles again like he was trying to do some kinda horrible dance, and Amelia caught him at the elbows.

            "Yep, you're the picture of health," she said, leading him slowly back to his bed -- no, no, not his bed, someone else's -- while he told her all about how totally okay he was and how maybe he should go home now since it was really just a waste of a bed and -- also the floor, how come the floor was moving so much? Did it always do that here because maybe they should look into that -- but anyway he was fine, it was just that his head sorta hurt.

            "And this," said York, settling down on the mattress again and gesturing at the bandages on his left side. "This, can you, can I take this off? I can't see."

            "Not right now," Amelia said, her voice becoming gentler. "We don't want you getting an infection."

            "Okay," said York. "It's just, I can't  _see_."

            Amelia paused as she was pulling the bedsheets back over him. "Aw, jeez. Nobody told you yet."

            "Told me what?" York said, picking now at the edges of the gauze.

            "Trust me, you're gonna want to leave that on," Amelia said, and he stopped for a moment.

            "Told me what?" he repeated, because how come nobody told him a thing they were supposed to tell him? Usually people told him things. (People told him lots of things. People liked him. Carolina liked him. He thought Carolina liked him. Maybe Carolina didn't like him. North said Carolina liked him. Where was North? North should've been here.)

            "Hold on," Amelia said, and she dragged a chair over to his bedside, sitting down with a sigh. "Okay, kid," she said. "We need to have a quick talk."

            "Talk about what?" York said, struggling up again out of a murky confusion of thoughts. "The thing nobody told me? How come --"

            "Listen," Amelia interrupted, holding a hand up, and he froze. "I need to tell you something, and it's not gonna be fun to hear. So you need to be ready. Are you ready?"

            "Sure," he said, shrugging. Jeez, his left shoulder hurt a lot. Everything hurt a lot.

            "All right. Do you remember what happened last night?"

            "I fell," York said helpfully. He felt sorta proud that he knew that, that he could pull at least one solid fact out of his jumbled memory.

            Amelia nodded. "You fell through a whole staircase. Extremely impressive."

            "Thanks, man." Staircase, okay, he remembered that. He was running but his foot stopped and everything stopped and then everything was just  _gone_  and he --

            "Hold up. You all right?" Amelia was looking at him hard and he just nodded, which made everything swim around and reshape and that made him dizzy so he decided moving his head was a bad idea and he wasn't ever going to do that again.  
  
            "Okay," Amelia replied, sounding only slightly convinced. "So, you fell. And when you fell, lots of broken wood fell with you. You landed on it. Do you remember that?"

            York blinked. He wished it didn't hurt so much to blink. "Sure," he said.

            Amelia didn't particularly seem to believe him that time either, but she didn't bother to say so. "Well, you got banged up. And your left eye got  _really_  banged up. Splintered wood isn't exactly your retina's best friend. So -- this is the not-fun part. You've got some pretty permanent damage to that left eye. Your sight isn't going to come back."

            "Oh," said York. He was still dizzy.

             Amelia watched him for a moment, and when he failed to react further, she frowned. "Do you understand what I just told you?"

            "I messed up my eye," York said. Except it was worse than that, he knew it was but somehow he couldn't get himself to hold onto that thought. It kept circling away from him, scattering into smaller thoughts.

            "Yes, you did. You're blind in your left eye," Amelia said, slowly and clearly. There was none of the earlier humor in her voice.

            York swallowed. He lifted his hand to touch the bandage again. "Nah," he decided. "That...that's not it."

            Amelia paused before speaking even more slowly and clearly. "It can be difficult to accept an injury like this, but--"

            "Can I take this off?" York interrupted, trying to tear at the gauze with his fingertips now.

            "Not yet." Amelia looked at him sternly, but if he tilted his head just enough then he couldn't see her anymore. "Why don't you rest for a while?" she went on, oblivious to her own disappearing act. "It's only six o'clock. Visiting hours don't start until ten. Have some breakfast, take some time to think about what I've told you."

            "Visiting hours?" York repeated, squinting at her. His eye was tearing up again and she was starting to look like just a bunch of colors. Blue scrubs, dark hair.

            "Visiting hours," said Amelia. "I spoke with your mom. Your friends are coming by. North, South, East, West -- whoever."

            "You know my mom?" York said, and felt weirdly like he was echoing himself. But he felt echo-y in general right now. Everything in his sight kept doubling and then blurring into indistinguishable shapes. 

            "Yeah. We're good buddies."

            "Okay." York closed his eye. It was such a relief for everything to be dark. Soothing. His head felt better, even. Maybe he'd just stay like this for a while. Not too long or anything. His mom, she was gonna be mad at him if he didn't finish his essay, so...so he...he had to...

            "Wait," York mumbled. "Wait." He tried to open his eye again, but it was so hard. He was so tired. Why was he tired...? Hadn't he just woken up? But, man, he was so _tired_...

            He must've been telling this to Amelia because she said, "Then maybe you oughta try sleeping," and his mouth moved and more words came out but he had no idea what they were. Until Amelia answered him from somewhere far away:

            "It's normal to be scared."

            And York stopped listening after that, started falling through the dark again.

  
*

            Carolina woke earlier than usual, and in the absence of the morning light she felt momentarily lost in this bed that did not belong to her. York's bed, she reminded herself, sitting up and breathing in the scent of it. Coffee and woods and comic book ink. It still felt wrong. And it still felt like something she needed.

            She took a slow breath, stretching her legs out to the end of the mattress as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Her muscles itched to move, to get out of here, to  _run_. She could slip out now and be back before anyone else had so much as opened their eyes…

            But her feet had hardly touched the ground before North stirred on his pile of blankets. He lifted his head to blink at her hazily, one corner of a blanket trailing down over his brow.

            "Are you leaving?" he whispered.

             He looked so concerned, even in his mostly-asleep state, that Carolina paused.

            "I'll come back," she said.

            "Visiting hours..." North paused to yawn. "...start at ten."

            Carolina glanced at her phone. It read 4:45 AM, the numbers shining in the dark. "I'll be back in time." She softened her voice. "You can go back to sleep."

            "M'kay," North sighed, his head already drooping back down to rest on the pillow. The room slipped back into the rhythm of quiet breathing, punctuated by South's occasional snores. Carolina shut the door behind her as silently as she could.

*

            She ran faster than she needed to, and farther, breaking the itch from her muscles and replacing it with an ache. In the last quarter she thought she saw the girl from the day before -- just a blur of black jogging clothes disappearing in and out of the trees on a parallel path. It might've been her tired eyes playing tricks on her, the pale light of morning casting strange shadows among the falling leaves. Either way, Carolina grit her teeth and pushed harder, on and on until the cold air burned her lungs.

            And afterward, in the shower, her legs shook. She pressed her palms and then her forehead against the wall, breathing in steam until she coughed. She had needed this. She had needed to run this hard.

            She dressed quickly, pulling on an old hoodie from her high school track team. The one with her name and graduation year on the back. Bright lime green and too big and she was still proud of it, of her name printed there in strong block lettering. She'd broken records back in high school, but her coach had warned her that college would be harder.

            Carolina had told the coach that it wouldn't be a problem. She would just run harder.

            Her hands trembled now as she pulled down the sleeves, but she ignored that along with the growing ache in her stomach. Pudding hadn't exactly been the most nutritious or filling choice for dinner. Later there'd be time for food. For now…

            Carolina paused, leaning against her desk. It was already six in the morning, and she should've been getting back to North and York's room. But she felt a little lost all of a sudden, the satisfaction of the run slowly draining away. Her American Literature textbook sat on the desk, the authors' portraits on the cover staring up at her. There was an essay due on Thursday. She'd done two rough drafts so far. York hadn't even started his.  

            She considered the textbook for a moment, eyeing its blank authorial stares, then grabbed it and tucked it under her arm with a notebook and pen. For now, she had to keep moving.

*

            North's first thought, as he trudged toward the knocking at the door, was that York must've gotten himself locked out last night. Then he remembered that York would never knock that lightly, and also that probably he'd have picked the lock by now. It wasn't until his hand was on the doorknob that he finally remembered, with anxiety pitching in his stomach, that York had done a lot worse last night than getting locked out.

            Out of the corner of his eye he saw Connie stirring on the couch -- just a few tufts of brown hair sticking out over her blanket cocoon -- but nobody else seemed bothered as North opened the door with a metallic click and a low creak of the hinges.

            Carolina stood there in the hallway, her hair damp and a couple of books under her arm. She tried for a smile and didn't quite make it. "Hey."

            "Hey," North answered in a quiet murmur, stepping aside to let her in. "You have a good jog?"

            "Good as ever," Carolina answered with a shrug. She set down her books on York's bed, her hands trembling slightly. From exhaustion or hunger or something else, North wasn't sure, but he reined himself in from asking if she was all right.

            "Think we should wake them up?" he asked instead, nodding at the room at large. "It's almost seven."

            Carolina folded her arms, looking around at the others. "You really think they need over two hours to get ready?" she asked doubtfully.

            "South does," North said, allowing himself a small smile.

            Carolina nodded, seeming to mull this over. Then she turned and spoke so abruptly and so  _loudly_  that North actually jumped.

            "All right, people!" she announced. "Visiting hours start at ten."

            "What the  _fuck_ ," South responded, stretching out across North's bed and kicking Maine in the stomach. He blinked awake but didn't budge otherwise. Connie made some sort of incoherent grumbling noise and one pale hand darted out from the blanket cocoon, groping at the floor until it closed around a cell phone. Wash sat bolt upright with a frantic, "But I didn't know it was due today!"

            "What the  _fuuuck_ ," South groaned again, letting her face meet the pillow.

            Carolina raised her eyebrows. "Is anybody at this school a morning person?" she muttered.

            "Me," said North mildly. "…And York."

            Carolina just looked at him for a moment, then brought out her commander's voice again. "We're leaving at 9:45," she said, looking around sternly at everyone. "Make sure you're ready."

            "It's not even seven o'clock," Connie protested indignantly, but she was getting to her feet now and extending a hand to help Wash up.

            "So you have plenty of time to get ready," Carolina replied with a shrug, and North had to suppress a laugh at the sheer ferocity of the glare that Connie sent her way.

            Maine lumbered to his feet and South took the opportunity to use him as support, grabbing him by the arm to drag herself upward. He didn't seem to mind. Or maybe he just didn't notice.

            "I'm fucking hungry," South growled at Carolina, as though this was her fault.

            "I think we all are," North replied, moving subtly to position himself in front of his sister.

            South grunted. "I'm gonna go steal like five hundred muffins from the caf," she announced, and went ambling out the door in North's Superman t-shirt and a pair of skull-patterned pajama pants, pausing only to stuff her feet into some truly hideous yellow rainboots that York had left lying around. North often found himself amazed (and slightly disconcerted) by his sister's level of apathy in the morning.

            "Guess breakfast is taken care of," Carolina said lightly. She was enjoying this, he suspected -- gathering them all together, lifting them up and into working order. Shouldn't have surprised him. There was a reason York referred to her as 'boss.'

            "Guess so," North nodded.

            Carolina leaned back against York's bed and lifted one of her books, paging through it slowly as Connie and Wash tripped over each other's feet on their way out the door. Maine waited patiently out in the hallway for his roommate to recover from his awkward apologies, and as the door shut behind them, North could hear his indistinct rumbling travel down the hall.

            There was a wave of exhaustion rising toward him all of the sudden, but North shook his head at it. Didn't let it catch hold. Instead he bent down to fold up the blankets on the floor, and after a while Carolina joined him, stacking pillows.

            "Are you all right?" she asked, and North paused, blinking at her. She didn't look concerned, exactly -- more like she was trying to gather information.

            "My best friend is in the hospital," he said at last. Because that pretty much covered it. He tried not to get too caught up in remembering -- how thick and dark the blood had been, how there had been such a wide puddle left there amidst the splintered wood. How York's voice had faded in and out, thin and struggling to lift above his shallow breathing.

            For a split second Carolina's expression flickered out pain, guilt, worry -- and then it was guarded again. "I'm sorry," she said.

            "It's not your fault," North said steadily. He stood to set the folded blankets down on the couch. Carolina followed him with the pillows.

            "I'm the one who wanted to go in," she said.

            North paused to look at her again. There was the guilt again, rising bright in her eyes. "It's not your fault," he repeated more firmly. "He's the one who wanted to go in."

            Carolina looked as though she wanted to say something else, but just then the door slammed open and South came striding in with an entire basket of muffins.

            "Breakfast, bitches!" she said cheerfully, dropping the basket onto North's desk.

            "You took the  _basket?_ " North said.

             "Nobody stopped me," South shrugged.

            "Nobody  _tried_  to stop you or nobody  _succeeded_  at stopping you?" North said, and when South started, " _Well_..." he just shook his head.

            "Nevermind. I don't wanna know."

            "Thanks," Carolina said, and took what appeared to be a raisin bran muffin from the basket.

            South flopped back on North's bed, kicking York's rainboots to the floor. She eyed Carolina for a split second before replying, "Sure thing, Miss Perfect."

            North raised his eyebrows, wondering if he should brace himself for a fight, but Carolina didn't respond. She just sat down at York's desk with her book and began to read again.

*

            "Do you think it's going to be crowded?" Wash said, his fingers netted in the haphazard spikes of his hair. His eyes were a little too wide, and he was moving in a worried, stumbling sort of way, grabbing his Freemont Lancel sweatshirt from where it had been folded on the end of his bed.

            Maine shrugged.

            "Do you think he's going to be okay?" Wash said after a pause, and his voice came out softer that time.

            Maine thought about how pale York had looked in the hospital bed, how red and raw the stitches had looked against his skin. How quiet he'd been. Usually Maine was a fan of quiet. But that had seemed all wrong.

            He shrugged again.

            Wash frowned. "He's gotta be okay," he decided, tugging the sweatshirt over his head and fussing with the sleeves.

            Maine didn't think that was true, necessarily. But he nodded anyway.

            Wash looked like he needed it.

*

           It occurred to Connie when she was brushing her teeth that she didn't technically _have_ to go back. She kept brushing through the realization, staring at her own exhaustion-shadowed eyes in the mirror. Carolina's toothbrush sat in its holder on the opposite side of their small bathroom shelf, bright blue and sparkly. She had never thought of Carolina as a sparkly toothbrush sort of person, but that just went to show how much she knew about the sort of person her roommate was.

            She didn't have to go back to North's room if she didn't want to. It wasn't like she was any great necessity to the group. It wasn't like she and York were especially close. Not that she didn't like him; she liked him well enough. She had, after all, allowed him to bleed all over one of her favorite sweatshirts. He was funny, and he was kind beneath all of his posturing and theatrics. But he wouldn't miss her  _that_ much if she didn't show, and there were tests she could be studying for, and...

            Wash would miss her.

            The thought came to her out of nowhere, short and simple and true. Wash  _would_  miss her. And she would miss him. And come to think of it, she'd actually had some good conversations with Maine at the study parties. (Maine liked  _Alien Punchers_. The video games. Mostly their conversations were exchanges of information on how to beat certain bosses.)

            Then there was North, who was nice enough and also had an  _Alien Punchers_  art book, so he wasn't a lost cause. South was...actually kind of amusing, when she wasn't being too offensive. And Carolina...

             Carolina had a sparkly blue toothbrush. So probably there was a part of Carolina, behind her wall of stoicism, who liked sparkly things. And that might be worth finding out about if only to marvel at the dissonance.  

            Connie rinsed her toothbrush and set it down in its cup, facing off against Carolina's. It was still only seven thirty at last glance. Maybe she could reread _Alien Punchers_ for a while. Prepare herself for what promised to be a stressful day spent at the hospital. In the _Alien Punchers_ series there were a whole bunch of hospital scenes. The good guys were always getting hurt, battling the forces of evil.

            But they bounced back soon enough. Heroes always did in those kinds of stories. And York would too. He had to.

            She picked out her favorite book -- the fifth in the series -- and curled up on her bed to lose herself in the world of good old-fashioned alien punching.

*

            “James.”

            The name almost drifted past York before he remembered that it belonged to him. He looked up, wincing at the left-side ache. Which was the wrong way, really; he’d meant to tilt it to the right, because that’s where his mom was standing, only the fluorescent light was kind of messing with his eye -- but anyway, his mom, she…she was looking worried again.

            “Did you hear me?” she said now, and yeah, there was that worried wrinkle of her brow.

            “Yeah,” York said, “’Course I did.” He tried on his best No-Seriously-Mom-Everything-Is-So-Totally-Okay smile. Didn't seem to work today, 'cause his mom just sighed and reached out to try and smooth his hair. It was sort of fluffed up and all over the place -- sadly, there was no hair gel at the hospital.

            “Are you sure you’re up for visitors?” she asked, glancing again at his half-finished tray of breakfast. She’d been trying to get him to clean his plate since like seven in the morning, but somehow York just didn’t feel all that hungry. Which was weird, for him, so he kinda understood why she was worried. But she didn’t have to be. He was fine. His friends were coming. North and South and Carolina and Wash and Maine and Connie and once they got here everything was gonna be fine.

            More fine. Than it already was.

            “’Course I am,” York said, his smile brightening, and his mom shook her head. She gently ruffled the hair she’d just smoothed.

            “You’re not just being stubborn?” she asked.

            York scoffed. “C’mon, when have _I_ ever been stubborn? I’m like, easily the least-stubborn son you’ve got.”

            She raised her pointer finger toward him in warning. “You’re twenty times worse than both your brothers combined and you know it. I would’ve had more luck raising a mule. Are you going to finish your breakfast or not?”

            “Or not,” York said apologetically, and when she moved to take his tray away, he closed his eye briefly so that he didn’t have to watch her disappear onto his left side.

            Amelia had let him take the bandage off, just for a minute or two, after his mom had come back and he wouldn’t stop asking about it. “You need a fresh one anyway,” the nurse had said, gently peeling away layers of gauze and then lifting the patch, until York could feel cool air on the raw skin beneath. He had blinked a few times. It still hurt.

            But nothing had changed. Everything stayed dark on his left side. He’d moved his head from side to side, even tried standing up and turning in a full circle – and nothing had changed.

 _Blind_ , he’d thought, _blindblindblind_ , and no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many times he repeated it, he still couldn’t really get a grasp on that word. The meaning of it. Like, he knew what it meant – but it couldn’t _mean_ that. Not really. Because that didn’t make sense.

            “James,” said his mother again, and York looked at her, leaning over his right side.

            “I’m okay, Mom,” he reassured her.

            She didn’t look reassured. “Why don’t you rest a little more? Just till the cavalry gets here.”

            "I'm okay," York repeated. He had a feeling he was gonna be repeating that a lot today. "Who's with Aaron and Rory? Speaking of brothers."

            "Your uncle," his mom replied, temporarily distracted from her concern. "I told him no lockpicking."

            York frowned. "I thought he was a wanted outlaw in this state."

            She rolled her eyes. "You know how he exaggerates."

            "I dunno, Mom," York said, leaning back into his pillow. "You might come home to a jewel heist."

            His mom let out a weary laugh. "Sweetheart," she said, "there's only one child of mine who'd end up in a jewel heist, and he's sitting right in front of me."

            York grinned. It pulled at his stitches a little. "Can I take that as a compliment?"

            She shook her head, lips pursed. "How about a warning?"

            "Oh. That's cool too." He lifted his hand, looking at the tubes that trailed from his arm, trying hard to concentrate and see them as distinct instead of a blurry tangle. "Mom," he said, "are you mad at me?"

            She hesitated, then leaned over his bed to straighten the blankets. "Not really," she sighed. "I just wish you'd think twice before you went charging into abandoned houses."

            "Yeah," York said, thinking abruptly of the way North had been looking at him when he was down on the ground, like he was afraid York would keel over and die at any moment. "I kinda wish that too."

            His mom sat back to look him over, her expression neutral. "Are _you_ mad at you?" she asked.

            York stared at the shapes of his feet beneath the blankets. "I messed up," he answered. It came out in a mumble.

            "What's done is done," his mom said, her voice steady. That was her favorite phrase for when something had gone irrevocably wrong. "All we can do is work with what we have."

            "Yeah," York repeated. "Yeah, I know." He blinked his right eye a few times. It was starting to sting.

             

*

            It was turning out to be a gentle fall day, and Carolina rolled her window down a few inches as Maine drove them onward to the hospital. They passed a street full of houses with left-over Halloween decorations, looking ragged and wrong in the morning light. South and Connie were arguing in the backseat -- something about ghosts again -- with the occasional tired mumble from Wash or North.

            "Music," Maine said suddenly, and Carolina turned toward him with a slow blink and a suppressed yawn. She was more tired than she'd realized -- and as it turned out, a raisin bran muffin just didn't really cut it as far as balanced breakfasts went. It took her a moment to realize that Maine was asking a question.

            "Sure," she said. She wondered for the first time where he'd come from, whether he was just as quiet at home as he was here.

            Maine nodded and reached over to turn on the radio. Some cheery pop song started to play, something she'd heard multiple times in the grocery store or on TV. There was a split-second of silence from the backseat before South declared, " _No._ "

            "No?" Carolina repeated, glancing backward.

            "No," South answered, folding her arms and looking for all the world like a sulking child. _Don’t make me turn this car around,_ Carolina thought, and had to resist the impulse to say it.

"We can't listen to this -- this  _pop bullshit_ ,” South went on. “No. _No._ Turn it off. Turn it off or I'm jumping out of the fucking car. Turn it o--"

            "Come on, I think we could all use a little optimism," North interrupted mildly. Carolina glanced back again and saw that he was smiling. Just enough to show that he was enjoying this.

            "Uggghhhh," South responded. And then, “Traitor.”

            "I kinda like it?" Wash said shyly. "Although, scientifically speaking, it's not plausible."

            "It could be worse," Connie said with a shrug.

            " _I'm walking on sunshine, whoa-oh! And don't it feel good!_ " the radio declared. Carolina tried not to laugh at the way the corners of Maine's mouth twitched.

            "Actually, I relate to this song on a deep, personal level," she said dryly, and there was a second's pause -- she could practically feel their surprise hanging in the air -- before Wash let out a laugh, and the others followed.

            "Well, wouldja look at that," said South. Carolina glanced at the rearview mirror to see her lean back and fold her arms. "Our stoic leader has a sense of humor after all."

            "I'm being dead serious," Carolina replied, raising her eyebrows, and South just stared back at the mirror for a second before letting out another puff of laughter.

            "I was wondering how you were putting up with him."

            Carolina didn't have time to ask what exactly that was supposed to mean, because they were pulling into the parking lot now. Abruptly she remembered the reason they were all piled into this minivan with their stomachs full of pudding and muffins and nervousness. Abruptly she remembered how still York had been last night, how silent.

            She climbed out of the van the moment that Maine put it in park, stray gravel crunching beneath her sneakers as they hit the pavement. She was thrumming with energy all of the sudden, ready to march into the hospital and demand to see York, demand that the doctors return him to his rightful, uninjured state so that they could drag him back to the minivan where he belonged.

            "Let's go," Carolina said as soon as everyone was out, and they seemed to understand her anxiousness. They marched forth -- this small, half-asleep army of Freemont Lancel -- with grave determination, and muffin crumbs on most of their clothes.

            Carolina, leading the charge, felt oddly proud.

  
*

            They didn't have to wait long in the lobby before York's mother arrived, stepping out from around the corner and beaming when she saw them lingering by the front desk.

            "Morning," Siona said brightly. "He's been asking for you ever since he woke up." She looked exhausted but calm. At some point she'd braided her hair. There were streaks of gray there, silver strands mixed in with chestnut brown. Carolina wondered how old she was, and then wondered if it was wrong to wonder that.

            "Come on," Siona said, evidently unaware of Carolina's sudden focus on her hair. "I'll walk you there."

            They piled into the elevator again, North chatting lightly with Siona and chasing out the nervousness surrounding them with the steady cadence of his voice. He was mostly just repeating the same things from yesterday about school, and answering the same questions about how was Wyoming doing, and was their dorm bigger than last year's, and was York remembering to do laundry at all? Carolina found herself squeezed in next to Connie, who glanced over and gave her a small smile. She tried not to wonder what she'd done to deserve that. Tried to just smile back in response.

            Siona led them up to the door, then hesitated in front of it. "I'll leave you all to talk," she said. "Does anybody want anything from the cafeteria?"

            They were all starving, Carolina was sure, but everyone answered with some variation of "no thank you."

            "If you're sure…" Siona said, looking briefly troubled, and Carolina got the idea all of a sudden that if this were her house, she'd be setting bowls of soup in front of them and insisting that they stay for dessert. She seemed like she could be that type of mom. Almost like a television mom. "I'll be back in about an hour. Just have to make some insurance calls. North, you have my number -- let me know if you need anything."

            "Sure," North said, and his voice came out a little funny as Siona walked away. Carolina followed his gaze through the small window in the door, and her heart shivered in her chest.

            Because there was York, sitting up on the edge of his mattress with his legs swinging off the edge, arm tethered to the bedside by an IV line. His back was turned to the door and he was gazing at the wall with apparent dissatisfaction, his shoulders hunched.

            He didn't look like York right now. He looked...well, he looked hurt. Changed.

            "You okay?" North murmured at her left, and Carolina glanced over to see Maine watching her from her right, silently asking the same question with his frown. Behind him, South stared straight ahead at York, her eyes narrowed and her mouth set in a thin line, as though the sight of him like this was an insult to her. Connie gazed through the window too, but Wash kept glancing nervously at Carolina, almost questioning.

            "Let's go," Carolina replied, and Maine nodded. He moved forward to open the door before she could, and they all trailed in, fanning out around the hospital bed a little awkwardly. Connie and Wash jostled into each other toward the back, for lack of room.

            York turned around so quickly that he seemed to set himself off balance, gripping at a pillow to keep from slumping to one side.

            "Hey," he said, blinking from one face to another. He tilted his head, like he was trying to orient himself. And then he broke out in what was possibly the goofiest grin Carolina had ever seen on him. It pulled at the stitches that trailed out from beneath his bandages and she wondered if it hurt.

            "Hey, man! You guys are late. It's like...ten fifteen."

            "Seriously?" South snapped. "I got up _early_ for you, jackass."

            North only smiled. "Good morning to you too."

            "I take it you're feeling a little better?" Carolina said, and York's half-gaze found her and rested there, and she hadn't thought his smile could get any _wider_ , but, well. There it was.

            "Oh, yeah," he said. "Definitely. I'm feeling great. I'm totally fine. I mean I could go home right now, only they won't let me." He punctuated this statement by sliding off the bed and tugging at the fabric of his hospital pajamas. "Look, man, they gave me _pants._ "

            "That's great, man," North said sincerely. South snorted.

            "I know, right?" York beamed and tilted slightly leftward.

            "Are you sure you're--" Wash started, and York pivoted, trying to find him there in the back of the room. "--um. Better?"

            "I am on _so_ many painkillers," York declared in response, and then he swayed on his feet. Both Carolina and North lurched forward to catch him, but he steadied himself by gripping to his IV pole. "So yeah," he went on, as though nothing had happened. "I'm totally fine."

            "Maybe you should sit down?" Connie suggested, and York tilted his head toward her.

            "Hey," he said. "Did you ever, y'know, did you find any ghosts?"

            Connie looked back at him very seriously. "Well, we didn't have time to really check," she said, the barest hint of sarcasm in her tone. "Our friend was in the hospital."

            "Oh." York seemed to deflate a little, leaning back against his mattress. "Yeah. Sorry." He touched a hand to the gauze over his left brow, tracing the line of it with his thumb.

            "How's your eye?" Carolina asked, and there was a pause before he lifted his head toward her.

            "It's okay," he said. "I mean, it's a little broken."

            "Broken?" North repeated, looking puzzled.

            "Yeah," said York. “Yeah, it’s…” He paused. His voice reached unsuccessfully for nonchalance, instead just thinning into something that approached nervousness. "Yeah, you know. It happens."

            "Broken how?" North pressed, stepping closer, and Carolina almost wanted to tell him to stop -- because York had gone too still, because he was barely smiling at all now, because she wasn't sure she wanted to know how broken.

            He lifted his head gingerly toward the ceiling and directed his voice there. "It's just that it's not working so great anymore," he said slowly. "Or...at all."

            There was a moment of silence, during which York let his eye rest back on the wall.

            Then South let out an angry breath. "Well, that fucking sucks," she said, and Carolina glanced back to see her crossing her arms.

            York looked up again, the smile falling back into place. "Nah," he said. "I mean, maybe a little. It's not so bad."

            "No, it's fucking bullshit," South said, striding past Carolina to sit down on the mattress beside York. "I mean, shit, can't they give you a bionic eye or something?"

            "I dunno," York said, raising his eyebrow. "I didn't ask."

            "I don't think that's a thing," Wash said from the back of the room.

            "Of course it's a thing. It's totally a thing. Have you even ever _read_ comic books?" South demanded, twisting around to glare at him.

            Wash frowned. "I don't think comics are good examples of modern medicine?"

            "Whatever." South punched York lightly in the shoulder. "Hey, next time your nurse comes by I'll ask about bionic eyes. Maybe it'll piss her off."

            "Wow, South," York said, rubbing at his shoulder. "You're just about the best friend anyone could ever have."

            "Yeah, well," she said, standing up and stretching. "Jesus, I'm tired. Hey, how's the coffee around here?"

            York brightened considerably at this question. "Man, it's pretty terrible," he said, sounding like himself again as he eased into coffee critique mode. "Overroasted, tastes all burnt. A lot stronger than Freelance's stuff though. You gotta go down the hall and to the right, then down some stairs, and there'll be signs."

            "Sweet," said South, and she waved a hand at them. "Be right back."

            "They let you go and get coffee?" North said incredulously, glancing after his sister with slight concern.

            York smiled. "Nah. Nurse brought it to me about an hour ago."

            "Then how do you--" North stopped, shaking his head. "You know what, nevermind."

            "C'mon, man, give me a little credit," York said, waving a hand in dismissal. "I've been here since last night." He twisted suddenly to look at Carolina. "Hey," he said.

            "Hey yourself," she answered. She could see now that the gauze on his forehead was fraying a little, like he'd picked at it. She had the strangest urge to press her lips there at his brow, like that would somehow make any of this better.

            "Didn't we," York started, then paused, closing his eye briefly. "Didn't we have an essay due?" he said, and it looked like he was trying so hard to focus on her. She wanted to tell him it was okay if he wanted to close his eye. But part of her needed him to be awake and looking at her like this, to be talking and even staggering around and almost falling down.

            "We did," Carolina said. "Delta's essay. It's due on Thursday."

            "I never started it," York said. He looked far too upset about that. Maybe he'd knocked together some academic wires in his head during the fall. That was a disturbing thought.

            "I'll help you," Carolina told him, and York just _gazed_ at her with this affectionate little smile, and the room felt too warm and too crowded all of the sudden, and she wished she could tell everyone but him to leave.

            North cleared his throat and she nearly jumped; somehow she'd forgotten that he was standing right next to her. "I think I'm gonna get some coffee too," he said. He looked pointedly around the room. "Anybody want to come with?"

            "Sure," said Connie.

            "I don't really like cof--" Wash started, but then Connie took him by the hand and he stopped talking, allowing himself to be led toward the door with wide eyes. Maine just turned and followed North without a word.

            And then the door closed.

            "Wow, North," York said, squinting after them. "You get here just to abandon me."

            Carolina moved to sit down in the hard plastic chair beside his bed. "He'll be back."

            York turned back toward her, smiling again. Every movement of his head was so slow, so careful. She wondered just how much pain medication he was really on.

            "Hey, boss," he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "You wanna help me bust outta here?"

            She smiled back at him. "Nope."

            "Aw, come on," York insisted, leaning forward like he was going to climb out of bed again. "The docs are letting me out on Monday anyway. Two days! I told 'em they might as well make it today, but you know, doctors."

            "Two days isn't that long to wait," Carolina said, lifting a hand to push gently against his good shoulder. York sighed and leaned back again.

            "Two days is like _forever_."

            Carolina thought about that. Two days without York in the cafeteria, or knocking at her dorm room door, or walking with her around campus like an idiot dog that someone had made the mistake of letting off-leash. It would be like two days of silence.

            "I'll come visit you tomorrow," she said. “And then on Monday we’ll take you home.”

            "Yeah?" York said, looking heartened.

            "Definitely."

            He beamed at her. "You're the best. I mean, you're actually the _best_ , you know? I always thought --" He stopped, looking suddenly self-conscious. "I mean, I just always thought that."

            Something in her shivered again at the honesty in his voice. "York," she said, and his name caught a little in her throat. "Your eye, is it..."

            "It's nothing," he said, waving a hand at her.  "Well, it's something. But I'm okay. Nobody believes me but I'm _okay_. I mean. I can still see." He tapped at his right brow, offering up a quick smile. "And I can still drive, did you know they still let you drive with no depth perception? 'Cause they do, so I can still drive anywhere I want, and maybe I'll even get one of those, you know, those special parking things, and I can get all the cool parking spots, and I, and I--"

York's voice had begun suddenly to waver, and he stopped, taking a deep breath. "I'm okay," he repeated, slower now.  

            Carolina reached for him then, leaning her arm against the side of the mattress and catching his hand in hers. York let out a small noise, soft enough that it might've been a sigh.

            It fit so _well_ , it felt so _right_ to just hold onto him, her palm against his, his pulse at her fingertips. She felt so overwhelmed with the rightness of it that for a few seconds she could barely breathe.

They were quiet for a while, as though this was conversation enough. Until York started to hum something, a melody that Carolina knew but couldn't quite place.

            "What's that from?" she asked, looking at him curiously, and he -- he actually _blushed_ , unless her eyes were playing tricks on her. A soft flush of red across his cheeks, disappearing as quickly as it had risen.

            And then he sang to her. Quiet and a little bit hoarse, his voice faltering at the highest note.  
  
" _Oh yeah, I'll tell you something_  
 _I think you'll understand_  
 _When I say that something --_  
 _I wanna hold your hand..."_

            Carolina laughed. "The Beatles?" she guessed, and York gave her a sheepish grin.

            "Yeah. Did I ruin the moment?"

            "Beyond salvation," Carolina told him, and York let out a sigh of a laugh.

            "Carolina," he said, his voice sliding toward mumbling now, his fingers tightening around her hand again. She waited, but it was a while before he spoke again.

            "I just...man, I just really wanted to find some ghosts. Is that stupid?"

            Carolina looked down at his drifting half-gaze, at the left-side bruising that was starting to discolor his cheek.

            "Maybe they didn't want to be found," she said.

            His eye flickered toward her. "I thought you didn't…"

            "I don't." She let her thumb brush over his palm. "How's the rest of the song go?"

            York gave her a dopey smile, his eye half-closed from tiredness or contentment or maybe just from all that pain medication. "I'm not that great a singer," he said.

            But he sang the rest for her anyway, soft and hoarse as before, and she closed her eyes to listen.

*

            "You think they're making out yet?" South asked idly, and Wash nearly choked on his tea. Connie patted him comfortingly on the back. They were gathered around the little coffee bar in the downstairs waiting room. North had insisted on lingering for a while, and until now Wash hadn't been sure exactly why.

            "Might be," said Connie with a shrug, and Wash nearly choked again. This time Maine gave him a rough clap on the shoulder, and he stumbled.

            "Do you really think -- I don't think they'd -- _here?"_ he said, and South just outright laughed at him.

            "You sure you're old enough for college, kiddo?" she said, smirking at him before taking another sip of coffee. She drank it black. Wash couldn't help being impressed by this.

            "South," said North warningly, before Wash could form a response. North left it at that. Just her name.

            "I bet you three bucks," said South, "that they're making out when we get back."

            "They're not," Wash said. "They wouldn't." Carolina, of all people, would not make out with anybody in a hospital room with a window where anyone could see her. That much he was sure of. _York_ might. But not Carolina. Wash looked around for back up, and Maine nodded at him.

            "Do you even have three bucks?" Connie asked South, and her tone was so pleasant that it seemed to take South a moment to realize she was being slightly insulted.

            "North," she said, glaring at Connie, "gimme three bucks."

            "You wasted my last three bucks on the vending machine the other night," North responded, rubbing at his forehead tiredly.

            "I _told_ you, they had tropical Skittles and I needed to stock up," South said, pointing at him angrily. "You and I both know that shit doesn't last."

            North just lifted his paper coffee cup to his lips and drank, and South glared at him, following suit.

            "York said they're just friends," Wash said, still stuck on the whole making-out-thing.

            Everyone turned and stared at him for that one.

            "Oh, Wash," South sighed, shaking her head as though she was just _sad_ for him now, and Wash frowned.

            "I'm not saying it's _true_ , I'm just saying that's what he _said_ , so --"

            "Poor, sweet, innocent Wash," South went on, still shaking her head, and North didn't say anything to her this time, and Wash was getting angry.

            "I'm not innocent," he snapped. "I'm -- I'm just trying to say, I don't know if York has the guts."

            South stopped shaking her head and regarded him coolly for a moment. North was mirroring her expression, which was both eerie and a little off-putting, because Wash wasn't sure if they were angry with him for insulting their friend or what --

            But then South just grinned. "Kid's got a point."

            "Probably right," North said, shrugging and going to fill his coffee cup again.

            "Maybe..." Connie mused, and Wash sighed and sipped at his tea. It was lukewarm now. What kind of visit was this, hanging around and drinking bitter, lukewarm tea instead of actually seeing his friend?

            "I'm gonna go back up," Wash said, and Maine followed him toward the stairs. Connie hesitated only a moment before coming along, and North and South exchanged a glance before trailing after them.

            "I don't even like tropical Skittles anymore," Wash heard North mutter.

            "That's a dirty rotten lie and you know it," South snapped, and they set to arguing the rest of the way up the stairs.

            Wash paused when he got up to the door, looking in cautiously through the small window with his lukewarm tea in hand. Carolina was sitting at York's bedside, reaching across to hold his hand, and they were laughing and talking and for some reason Wash had the feeling he was looking in on something private. Not as private as making out, or at least not the same kind of private -- but something quiet and vulnerable, something he wasn't supposed to know about.

            He startled when Connie spoke at his shoulder.

            "I thought that might be it," she said, peering in through the window.

            "What do you--" Wash started, but then South barged past to get a look, and both York and Carolina looked up at the noise of her footsteps. Carolina released York's hand, but not in an embarrassed sort of way. Just like she was done with it for now.

            South opened the door. "Hey," she said, addressing York. "Does North like tropical Skittles?"

            York frowned. "'Course he does. Except he picks out the yellow ones. Which are, like, obviously the best ones."

            "They _changed_ the _flavors_ ," North said, throwing up his hands. "I don't know why that's so hard to understand."

            Carolina leaned back in her chair, observing the continuation of the Skittles Saga with mild amusement, and Wash just sighed and took another sip of his stupid tea. Usually it bothered him when people bickered, but somewhere along the line this had started to feel normal. Sort of like family.

*

            They stayed until one o'clock, at which point several stomachs had begun to growl audibly, and York seemed to be slipping beneath the influence of his pain meds. Rambling was normal for York, but North had never seen him ramble with quite this level of intensity. He was in the middle of a story about Oreos -- something about how the mint ones were his favorite, and had anyone ever tried the mint ones, and weren't they great, and hey have you ever chewed a mint leaf and does it taste like mint and does it taste like gum and what's spearmint anyway -- when North decided an interruption might be a good idea.

            "Hey, man," North said. York stopped, blinking a few too many times. "Maybe you should get some rest?"

            York stared. "Rest?" He seemed lost, now that his rhythm of speech had been broken. He'd been talking so fast, trying to keep the room away from silence — which was the Traditional York Way of trying not to deal with something.

            "Yeah, man," North said, resisting the urge to glance over at South, who had to be rolling her eyes by now. "Rest."

            "That's when you stop talking for a while," Carolina explained from the bedside chair, and York made a face at her.

            "Yeah, right, but I feel fine," he said, fidgeting with his bedsheets. "I feel totally, I feel, I...I'm." He paused, lifting one hand to press his palm gingerly against the left side of his forehead. "I think I have a headache."

            "It'd probably feel better if you closed your eye," North said gently.

            "Yeah. Okay." York looked doubtful. Then he just looked tired, yawning and rubbing now at the right side of his face. "Doc said it's gonna hurt for a while," he said, to no one in particular.

            "It'll get better," North told him. He tried to catch York's gaze, but it shifted away.

            "I feel fine," York repeated, and smiled thinly around at all of them. He was rallying -- painfully, visibly. He gathered himself and set his shoulders back, letting his hands fall back down to the bedsheets. "Seriously though. I mean, you guys can go get lunch or whatever. I'll be here till Monday." He cracked a grin now. "Get your tickets while you still can."

            "Idiot," South said fondly, and York waved a hand at her in acknowledgment.

            "Do you want more meds?" North asked. "We could ask the nurse--"

            "I'm good, man," York interrupted. He looked back at North now with his eye sort of narrowed -- either to see better or to communicate his annoyance. North wasn't sure.

            "Fine," North sighed. "We'll be back tomorrow."

            "'Course you will," York said, his voice getting quieter by the syllable. He was tired, and his expression showed it. That was all right. That was normal. They were all pretty tired. And, okay, that was definitely North's stomach that had just grumbled. The soggy, unsatisfying fare of Freemont Lancel's cafeteria was starting to sound pretty good right about now.

            "We will," North echoed, and he was about to say goodbye when York interrupted him again.

            "Hey," he said, clinging determinedly to a smile. "Listen. Don't do anything cool without me, okay?"

            And something about his voice made North's stomach twist, but he smiled back anyway. "Never," he promised.

            York closed his eye just for a second. "Thanks, man."

            "Anytime." And North headed to the door after that, because a goodbye just felt too heavy now.

*

            Carolina was the last to leave his room, and York didn't tell her that he didn't want her to go. He just said, "See you," because she didn't do goodbyes, and anyway he wanted to think about the seeing-her part way more than he wanted to think about the goodbye part.

            "Two days till you're out," was all Carolina said in response, smiling slightly. She touched his hand -- just a brush of fingertips over his palm -- and walked out the door.

            York let his head fall slowly back onto the pillow. "Two days," he told the ceiling.

            It might as well have been years.

*

            "Tomorrow's Sunday," Wash said in the van, and Carolina looked at him in the rearview mirror. North, sitting next to him in the middle row, didn't react at all. He leaned against the door and stared out the window, watching the neatly-groomed houses go by. Almost all of the Halloween decorations had been taken down now.

            "So?" South said, eyeing Wash almost with suspicion. She was leaning across two seats in the very back row, Connie tucked comfortably into the opposite corner.

            "Study party," Maine said, not taking his eyes from the road.

            "Oh," said South. Nothing else. No derogatory comment or dismissal. Just "oh," soft and tired.

            Everyone went quiet after that, and when Carolina glanced back again, North had closed his eyes.

*

            They had lunch together, all huddling around their usual cafeteria table. Carolina tried not to look too much at the empty seat beside her, but it was impossible not to hear the silence.

             Soon enough, South and Connie began to argue about whether or not the moon landing had been faked, with occasional worried interjections from Wash. But there were these pauses in between, where York's voice should have been with a tension-dissolving joke or subject change.

            Probably none of them would be sitting together at this table if it wasn't for York. Carolina wasn't sure why that had never occurred to her before. Somehow she'd accepted the formation of the group as something natural, but it wasn't as though they'd all just magically gravitated toward one another. They were here because York had decided, one Sunday evening, that it would be fun to have a study party.

            "We could bring it to him," she said out loud now, her voice cutting into a fierce debate about the validity of moonrocks. South stopped growling insults, and everyone turned to look at Carolina.

            Her mouth felt dry for some reason. "The study party, I mean. We could bring it to him."

            A pause, and then North was smiling at her. He hadn't really smiled since they'd left the hospital.

            "He'd like that."

            "I don’t know if they let you bring pizza into the hospital," Wash said, frowning slightly.

            "I think they let you," North reassured him.

            "They don't have to _let_ us," South said, eyes gleaming, and Wash's frown deepened.

            Carolina took a sip of her water, and listened to her friends work out a plan.

*

            South slept in York's bed that night, and North laid awake for a long time, listening to her sleep-mutterings. To all of the empty spaces she couldn't fill.

            He would pack a bag for York tomorrow. Some clothes, some comics. A textbook or two for the party. It wouldn't be much but it would help. York had always been scared of hospitals and the more time he had to think about it the worse it would get. And North did not particularly feel like finding out that York had attempted to break out of the hospital at four in the morning with one working eye and an excess of pain medication.

            Wyoming whuffled in his cage, peering out at North through his cage bars, the soft glow of the desk lamp illuminating his dark, angry eyes.

            "Hungry again?" North asked, and the guinea pig just stared. Guinea pigs were supposed to make noise, but Wyoming mostly stared at people. York said he was probably an evil mastermind and not to be trusted, but York also periodically fed him handfuls of lettuce stolen from the cafeteria.

            North didn't have any lettuce lying around. Just regular old dry pellets. So he poured some into Wyoming's bowl and then stumbled back to bed, switching off the desk lamp on his way. He heard a dissatisfied little grunt from the cage, and sighed.

            "Sorry, man," he murmured. "York'll be back soon." Monday. That was no time at all. They'd pick York up on Monday, and everything would be...

            Not normal. But it'd be...it'd be something.

            North closed his eyes and sighed into his pillow, wondering if he should pack York the last pudding cup.

*

            "Maine."

            Wash's voice was frayed with exhaustion, reaching out across the darkness from his bed to Maine's. They'd played video games for nearly four hours before finally going to sleep. It had felt good to shoot some aliens. Even Wash had gotten into it, and Maine knew he wasn't a huge fan of _Helio_.

            "Yeah," Maine replied.

            "It's just." Wash hesitated. "He didn't look so good."

            "No," Maine agreed.

            "You think he'll be better? When he comes home?"

            Maine was silent for a moment. Then he said, "His eye is broken."

            "I know,” Wash said in a small voice. He shifted beneath his blankets.

            "Maybe," Maine said, after another moment of silence.

            "Huh?"

            "Maybe he'll be better."

            "Oh." Wash let out a sigh. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, maybe."

            And then he went quiet again, his breath beginning to slow with sleep.

            Maine turned toward the wall and closed his eyes.

*

            Carolina couldn't sleep. She felt like she was missing something, like she'd forgotten something important in North and York's room, had left it tangled up in York's sheets or maybe tucked behind his pillow. Her bed felt colder, and smaller, and less safe.

            Connie seemed to be having none of these issues with her own bed -- she'd curled up and fallen asleep when it was barely nine o'clock. Carolina listened to her slow, even breathing, and tried to follow her example.

            Tomorrow would be another long day.

*

            York dreamed of falling again, and again and again after that. He kept waking up with his hands gripping at the mattress and words rolling off his tongue -- words like "stop" and "hold on" and "wait, wait, not yet." Sometimes he woke up to find his mom there, her cool hand against his forehead or smoothing his hair, her voice a murmur of reassurances. Sometimes Amelia was there, and she asked him if anything hurt.

            Once his dad was there, and York knew that one was a dream because his dad hadn’t been alive for a long time. But there he was, smiling and healthy and patting York on the shoulder, telling him something encouraging. Something about things working out okay.

            Amelia was there when York woke up from that dream. He told her yeah, it hurt a whole lot.

            ~~~~

*

            Sunday morning came with a light, drizzling rain. Carolina overslept by an hour and had to cut her jog short. Frustration burned in her chest by the end of it, but her legs were so sore and her body ached and all she really wanted was a hot shower.

            When she dragged herself back to the dorm she must've been a sorry sight, because Connie looked over from her bed and shook her head. "I guess you've never heard of the whole 'day of rest' thing?"

            "Not ever," said Carolina wryly. "In my whole life." As she leaned down to untie her sneakers, she thought she heard Connie laugh.  

  
*

            After an extensive argument at breakfast, it was determined that it was Wash's turn to pay for the pizza.

            Except Wash didn't really have any money. In fact none of them really had much (non-parent-provided) money, since they were all, as South put it, "jobless losers." So instead they pooled together their cash and paid for the pizza, and it was Wash's job to carry it.

            "Guys, I think it's burning my hands," he announced now, following the others into the hospital.

            North winced when South shoved at Wash's shoulder, nearly sending the two boxes to the ground. "It's your turn, kiddo," she said. "Deal with it."

            "But it's _burning_ ," Wash whined.

            "Just a couple minutes, Wash," North said, and received a heavy sigh in response.

            There was no Siona to greet them in the lobby today -- she'd texted North that morning to tell him she'd be going home during the afternoon to check on her other two sons. But the nurses remembered their motley group, and North remembered where the room was by now. He'd always had a good sense of direction. (York had once claimed that this was because North was named after a direction. He'd been a little put out when North reminded him that _he'd_ been the one to come up with the whole 'North and South' nickname thing. "Your last name's _Dakota,_ " York had answered. "That's like, destiny. Still counts.")

            North led them to the elevator and tugged at the backpack slung over his shoulder. It was heavy -- he'd packed it full of more comics than were probably necessary, and Carolina had dropped by that morning to tell him that they should bring along York's American Literature textbook. Which was enormous, and covered in eerie portraits of dead authors. North had shifted it carefully behind a copy of _The Avengers_. Just, you know. For presentation's sake.

*

            They came back.

            It wasn't like York hadn't known that they were coming back -- except that, okay, maybe some part of him had started to panic for no good reason at all and think _but_ _what if they don't_. And maybe that same part of him was starting to slowly become more and more aware of the (seriously horrifying) fact that he was _locked in a hospital_ , and maybe -- maybe he'd just been missing everybody. A little.

            But it was okay, everything was gonna be okay, because here was North opening the door with a smile and a "Hey, man." He set a backpack on the floor, and Carolina and Maine and Connie came in behind him with their own bags, and now here was Wash, tripping into the room with a couple boxes of --

            "Is that a pizza?" York said, inhaling the deliciously greasy scent, and Wash nodded.

            "It's really hot," he said miserably, and South scoffed at him and snatched the boxes away, setting them on the bedside chair where they balanced precariously.

            "It's Sunday," she snapped at York, slightly more vicious than usual.

            "Yeah, thanks," he told her, "but they have this thing over there on the wall, it's called a 'calendar,' I don't know if you've--"

            "It's _Sunday_ ," South repeated, "as in _study party day_. As in we got you a _pizza_ , you stupid jerk."

            "Oh," said York, and then, " _Oh_." He grinned so hard his face hurt. "Wow. Go team Freelance."

            North crossed his arms, smiling. "Brought you some homework, too."

            "Well, we can't all be perfect," York sighed, and North rolled his eyes, and behind him Carolina was smiling. So maybe his head was kinda killing him and maybe his eye kept blurring now and then, but -- his friends were here. And they'd brought him a _pizza_. Didn't get much better than that.You know. Given the circumstances.

           

*

            Nobody had thought to bring plates or anything for the pizza, so Connie volunteered to go and steal some from the cafeteria. She dragged a protesting Wash along with her, and Carolina could hear him arguing about how this was definitely against the rules all the way down the hall. He came back with his arms loaded with napkins.

            Most of them ended up sitting around York's bed on the floor (which Wash deemed highly unsanitary and which South deemed "Who cares?"). Carolina, however, sat beside York on the edge of his mattress, holding his literature textbook in her lap.

            "What you need to do," she told him, "is plan ahead. Write an outline first."

            "Plan ahead," York repeated blankly. He fiddled with the pen and notebook she'd given him.

            "Don't worry, I know you're unfamiliar with the concept."

            She felt him laugh more than she heard it. "It's just, I'm really great at improvising," he said earnestly. "So if I just wait till the last minute, then I--"

            "--risk failing all your classes," Carolina finished.

            "That's the fun part!" York said, swinging his slippered feet gently against the bottom edge of the bed. "I mean, not the failing part, the risk part. I never fail." Carolina saw North glance up from his notebook at this, eyebrows raised, but this elicited no reaction from York. North was sitting on his left side.

            "You haven't failed _yet._ That doesn't mean you won't _ever_ ," Carolina said. She wondered, not for the first time, if York had ever actually encountered the concept of logic. "Delta's already fed up with you not doing your homework. Do you really want to risk not getting your essay done in time?"

            "Aw, no, he likes me," York said.

            "Last class he told you to read five extra chapters because you didn't bring your textbook."

            "He likes me," York repeated, with deep conviction. "If he didn't like me then he'd have said ten extra chapters."

            "So," Carolina said, ignoring him, "to write a basic outline, you start with your introduction."

            "Yeah, I've heard that one before," York said, and he put his pen to the paper. "Umm. So. Once upon a time, there was a poet named Whitman."  He started to write, then stopped about three words in, lifting a hand to his forehead.

            "You okay?" Carolina asked quietly.

            "I'm awesome," York replied, his hand dropping quickly. He smiled at her, but his eye took a moment to focus and his hand curled itself tight around the bedsheet.

            "Of course you are," said Carolina.

            York ignored the sarcasm, fidgeting with the notebook again. "So, Whitman, right, what's his deal anyway? He's all...into himself, right?"

            "No," Carolina sighed. "Sort of. Did you even read the poem?"

            "'Course I read the..." York began, all bravado, and then his shoulders dropped. "No, man. No, I totally didn't."

            Carolina flipped back a few pages. "It's really long," she warned. "I'm only going to read the first section, and then we'll talk about what it means."

            "Yes, Professor Carolina," York replied primly. He set the notebook aside and leaned back across the mattress, pen still in hand. His hospital pajamas shifted up so she could just glimpse the bruises below his rib cage, dark purple and light greenish, and it made her want to wince on his behalf.

            "Are you listening?" she asked, and he closed his eye.

            "With both ears, even," he told her.

            Carolina rolled her eyes, and read aloud.

_"I celebrate myself, and sing myself,_   
_And what I assume you shall assume,_   
_For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you..."_

 

*

            That night, York dreamed he was writing an essay about pizza. Carolina kept reading him the ingredients over and over, but when he asked her for the directions she only smiled.

            "Improvise," she told him.

*

            They went back to bring York home on Monday afternoon, as promised. Carolina hadn't expected everyone to go along – but everyone was there nonetheless, piling into the minivan and settling into what had become their usual seats. Connie and South sat in the back. North and Wash were in the second row, each by a window. They'd left the middle seat empty for York.

            He was already in the downstairs lobby when they arrived, slouching casually against the wall with his foot up on a stray chair. Siona was standing there by the front desk with a clipboard, filling out what looked like some last minute paperwork. York's injured side was turned toward them, and Carolina faltered when she saw his eye.

It was startlingly blank. It was as though the deep gray-blue of his iris had simply been drained away somewhere along with that mess of blood on the floor of Charon Hall, leaving the entire eye nearly white. The still-healing wounds trailed down from just above his eyebrow -- jagged, dark lines of stitches that brought a quiet sickness to Carolina's stomach. She let her feet fall heavier as they got closer, not wanting to surprise him, but South took care of that first.

            "What, you don't get a badass eyepatch?" she called out, shoving her way to the front of the group. York turned to look at her, and his smile was pure relief.

            "Nah, man. Well, yeah, but I only have to wear it when I'm sleeping. And if it's really dusty and stuff," York said. His hands were hooked comfortably in his jeans pockets – he'd changed into the clothes that North had brought him last time – and if Carolina focused on the brightness of his right eye, she could pretend for a moment that everything was fine, that everything was normal.

            "You could be Nick Fury," South said, and York gave a laugh that came out almost startled.

            "Hey, I could."

            "From _The Avengers_ ," North murmured when he saw Carolina looking puzzled. "Superhero with an eyepatch." He was smiling at his sister appreciatively. That wasn't something you saw every day.

            "You make sure you wear that every night," Siona said, turning around to direct a stern look at York.

            "I said I would," York said, holding up his hands in defense. "Y'know. Only about a hundred times."

            The rest of them got a pleasant smile from York's mother. "Thank you again for driving him back," she said, mostly to Maine, who nodded like he hauled around seriously injured classmates all the time.

            "We'll take care of him," North promised, and Siona looked at him fondly.

            "I know you will." She pulled him into a hug, and after that no one was safe. Wash blushed all the way through his hug, and Connie and Maine had surprisingly identical reactions of puzzlement.

            Carolina braced herself for her turn, but Siona only rested her hands on Carolina's shoulders, smiling gently. "It was so nice to meet you," she said. "You're welcome to come visit during break."

            "Thank you," Carolina said. It came out shy.

            “Of course,” said Siona, and then she let Carolina go and turned to her son.

            "You're going to call and give me updates," she said, almost like a warning.

            York offered up an easy smile. The one he used to try to get out of things. "Sure thing, Mom."

            "And you're not going to go traipsing through any more abandoned buildings."

            "Me? Never."

            "And you're going to do _all_ your homework, and --"

            " _Mooom_ ,” York groaned, shifting his feet. “I get it. I'll be good. I'll be the best student ever."

            “You better.” Siona shook her head at him. “What am I going to do with you?” she said, exasperated and tender all at once.

            “Let me go back to school?” York suggested with a winning smile, and she sighed.

            “All right. Go. But _don’t forget_ to call me.”

            “I won’t,” York promised.

            She hugged him the longest out of all of them, and then just like that they were walking away.

*

            The parking lot was bright. Like. Crazy bright. Or maybe the hospital was just dim. Either way, York kept wanting to close his eyes, which was sort of a bad idea for walking so instead he stared at the ground. Which, it turned out, was also sort of a bad idea because it made his head pound like crazy.

            "York," said North, standing at his right side. "You all right?"

            He lifted his gaze and tried to focus straight ahead on the red flicker of Carolina’s ponytail.

            "Yep. Still fine." It was the second time North had asked him that and they weren't even to the minivan yet, and everybody kept looking at him like he was gonna shatter into a million pieces any minute now. (Wash wasn't even trying to hide it, and York couldn't decide if that was more or less annoying than North’s constant Worried Glances.) He was _fine_ , he could walk across a parking lot without North acting like his second mom, he was --

            He was tripping now, and stumbling up against Maine, who'd taken it upon himself to stand at York's left side like a prison guard. York wished he wouldn't. Wished the sun wasn't so _bright_ , because it was making him see spots of light in his good eye and weird shadows in his left, which was sorta freaking him out -- and okay, maybe he was a little dizzy but everybody got dizzy now and then. Nothing for North to be fussing over.

            "Sorry, man," York told Maine, who sorta just growled in what seemed like an accepting way. North gave him a very meaningful, very Worried-with-a-capital-W glance, and York ignored it dutifully.

            "Almost there," said Carolina, glancing back at York. She wasn't worrying about him, he realized. Just sharing a fact.

            "Already? Wow, you guys shoulda parked farther away," York replied with false cheer, and she turned back again to raise her eyebrows at him.

            "We don't _have_ to drive you home, you know."

            "Come on, boss," said York. He kept his eye on her back, focusing on her steady movement to keep him steady too. "We both know you'd never leave a man behind."

            She didn't answer that one, just gave a small shrug of her shoulders. York felt himself drift too close to Maine again, and this time he corrected it with a clumsy, shifting step toward the right. North gave him another look.

            York kept his gaze pointed straight ahead.

*

            Carolina was trying not to look at York too much. Not because she didn't want to, but because everyone else kept looking at him, watching his every footstep, and he was starting to seem touchy.

            Wash in particular was staring openly, like he thought York might disappear if he blinked. In fact he was trying to help York into the minivan now, stretching out his hand as though York was at the bottom of a treacherous pit rather than simply standing on the pavement.

            "You know what buddy, I think I can make it," York said, and Carolina glanced back from the passenger's seat to watch him climb in and settle himself in the middle seat. North got in to sit on his other side, and for a moment York just stared up at the ceiling. Then his good eye flickered toward Carolina.

            "How come you always get shotgun?" It was a weak attempt at humor, and he looked pale and tired from the walk. But she played along.

            “I plan ahead,” she told him, and he gave her a small smile. Maine turned the key in the ignition, and Carolina turned her gaze to the road.

*

            York leaned back into the seat and closed his eyes. Sunlight streamed in through the minivan's opened windows, flickering against the back of his eyelid. He thought about the light that must’ve been pouring in through the blinds of the dorm window about now, bright warm patches across his bedspread.

            His bed. That was a nice thought. No machines, no needles. Just a mattress and blankets and pillows. And there'd be pudding in the mini-fridge, and coffee waiting in the cafeteria.

            After a while the minivan slowed, and York opened his eyes. There was Necessitas outside the window, same old bricks standing strong, as though nothing had happened at all.

            "Welcome back," said North, looking at him with the worry reined in and replaced with a tentative smile.

            York didn't answer right away. He just breathed. The air tasted like autumn, like woods. Solid ground.

            "S'good to be home," he said at last.

            North clapped him gently on the shoulder, and then together they stepped out into the sunlight again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A HUGE ALL-CAPS THANK YOU to my friends Amanda and Megan for reading the first draft(s) of this and just being ridiculously helpful while I flailed around in confusion with this story.
> 
> Also a huge thank you to birdinatree over at Tumblr for creating this absolutely beautiful depiction of [Wyomingpig.](http://birdinatree.tumblr.com/post/43462296719/alright-so-mumblybees-freelancer-college-au-is)
> 
> 2/28 (Chapter Two): I will probably update these notes periodically with more declarations of infinite gratitude. Today, I declare infinite gratitude to birdinatree once more [for this glorious bit of fanart inspired by chapter two.](http://birdinatree.tumblr.com/post/44035848952/i-was-sad-so-i-drew-something-from-mumblybees)
> 
> 6/23 (Chapter Four): Oh my god birdinatree is wonderful and amazing [and drew this scene from Chapter Four!](http://birdinatree.tumblr.com/post/53697149829/if-you-havent-read-mumblybees-ghost-studies-yet)


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